The Island in my Mind

Sometimes it's so hard to deal with changes. I can walk the streets I trod long ago and shake my head at what it has become. It's loud, it's crowded, it's paved and repaved.

So much is missing. No shrimp boats, no houseboats, no place to camp on the beach. Everything has a steep price and there isn't any character left. Just avoid it and go home and safeguard the memories.

And then, by happenstance, I find myself riding the familiar roads to a destination I loathe. It's not easy to get lost on this road. It is easy to get swallowed in memories - good and bad. From the redesigned and repaved road to Alabama Jacks. The memory of Alice's crab cakes (which she gave me the recipe to so many years ago). The bridge over the Sound and into the mangroves that give way to the bustle of traffic that is Key Largo.

Soon to pass my old home on the water in Tavernier and places I worked and lived. Fought off demons and found resolve. But it's a little farther down this ocean highway I can really feel the tug of sweet nostalgia pulling me South. The bridges get longer. I remember the old ones that have long ago surrendered to time, neglect and the elements.

And the water. Blue on my left and green on my right. Deep ocean out there. Shallow gulf over here. The stench of low tide slips over the senses like an old, wet blanket. Fish and Sargasso and mangrove gas and wet lobster traps.

The traffic thins for a while and the sights become once again familiar. Motels that refused to change and fewer roadside circus attractions. Small town America on the tip of the continent. And it all happens again.

The traffic, the noise, the changed scenery and the road constriction that has not ended in 10 or more years. Fighting cars for a space to lead my steel steed to rest. It has been a long, hot trip. But there it is...

A small street with small gingerbread houses carefully preserved and lovingly restored. It's a nice place to stop. And all the odors of the highway are replaced by honeysuckle and jasmine. A rooming house on the edge of the world and a garden in which to rest. The sun plays on the deck of a small pool of warm water.

Out there the streets are choked with tourists and locals trying to make a living in a place they can't afford to live anymore. Some of it is familiar and some of it is just plain scary. But here I am insulated. And I can hear the voices of ghosts that linger and hover over old haunts. Go out and play, my friends and I will be right here.

It's a small slice of what paradise used to be. I'll stay right here. My soul needs to soak up old Key West.

© DD Corbitt