Leap out of the warm bed. Find the soft silky terrycloth socks wrinkled during sleep. White ones. Was I cold? Was it the heat of the body next to me, or a dream of warmth and sun? Cold floor and morning. A yogurt shake and tights. Jeans and a jacket. A scarf and gloves. Today, the world outside is white. Today, the first snow fell. It’s from the tribe of snows that inevitably melt. But still…
Blinded by the prickly snowflakes covering the windshield with a filmy frost, getting lost in the white space, feeling the transparent, empty eyes of winter staring straight into my soul, stretching their long sticky hands through me, as if I were emptiness, wind, the space between spaces… I dissolve into this endless dying of nature, becoming a part of it, becoming the tips of its frost-dusted eyelashes.
And yet my spirit glimmers in this kingdom of the Snow Queen—like a rose petal Gerda once gave to her cold friend Kai. And I carry the ghost of what once was me onto the airplane, to take a deep breath of life again in just three hours.
What does Miami smell like? A hurricane of sounds and scents, but still… The very first scent that wraps around and pierces you is the incomparable smell of warmth. It seeps into your eyes, your mouth, it slips under your skin. Was I a ghost of myself? Or did it only seem like I had been dead?
Maybe it was flowers. Maybe leaves. Maybe rays of light. Maybe just the wind. Maybe just the wind. I want to be just the Wind, to roam through this quiet expanse of sky and brush against the eyes of orchids, stealing from their vanilla lips the first kisses of eternal spring.
What does the road smell like? A bubbling, trembling ball of aromas from island restaurants, teasing our hungry stomachs. We startled the scent of Piña Coladas, burst into the sultry breeze of a calm evening, and raced southward in a red Dodge to the farthest islands.
What do the islands smell like? Like a moonlit path. High, round, bright silver, smiling. To a familiar tune. She bathed in her reflection, gathering—like flowers for a wreath—threads of grayish seaweed, stringing them onto shreds of cloud, and diving, adorned, into the ocean.
What does the ocean smell like? Like the magical garments of moon maidens on the Night of Ivan Kupala—yesterday, today, tomorrow. Like the heady scent of their watery braids, like the sparkling path on the water—the musky magic of lunar witches. Like the fresh breeze of a coconut-pineapple paradise, drenched in waterfalls of White Caribbean rum. Like the rays tangling in my eyelashes.
There were palms. And the wind. And the sun. And the fire of my heart. And the warm asphalt. And I walked barefoot. And I cried. And I asked forgiveness for staying away so long. May the whole world forgive me—and you too. For being endlessly in love. I am forever in love with Florida.