Our last day

It’s Saturday morning at 10. I just ran in the house to grab some sunscreen and my computer. I can’t post this right now as everyone in the neighborhood who has wireless has cancelled their service for the winter. During the first week in April, half of the town heads North, back home to meet their accountants—the great tax migration from south Florida. Birds around here probably watch it all from the palm trees and talk amongst themselves about how backward people are.

Graci and I have to head back tomorrow, a fact we’re trying to ignore as we enjoy our last day. Right now, we are sitting on a couple lounge chairs in the backyard, drinking our coffee. The salty sea breeze is making the palm branches dance over our heads and has brought the sweet smell of a flower that doesn’t grow at home. I could happily sit right here and get nothing done for the next month.

Graci just went inside to make us some cereal and let the dogs out of their crate. We are staying with my aunt and uncle and their two miniature dachshunds, Roni and Galloway—the Girls. Roni will come out and hunt lizards, and Galloway will sit on Graci’s lap and lick her face. Galloway is blind and has Parkinsons disease. Graci is drawn to creatures who overcome. They, in turn, sense that she sees and appreciates their beauty in a way others don’t. So...she and Galloway bonded immediately. They have spent much of the last week chillaxin’—reading books, sharing bananas, chatting about how they don’t have to do anything else because they’re on vacation. Graci does most of the talking as Galloway stares over the top of her head and, with her always agreeable tremor, nods.

Ahh. We’re going to miss this—the sun, the sweet smelling flowers, the Girls. Next week when I’m in clinic listening to some old woman talk about every medical problem she has had since 1957 when her second child was born, I will be staring over her head and nodding like the blind, shaky dog.

And I will be thinking about sitting right here.