I drink rum, coconut water and parsha juice to try to replace the feeling of being there.
Fall is here. The dark comes earlier and my ride home from work now includes squinting into the glare of oncoming headlights. I have put away my summer dresses and I have started wearing socks and shoes. There are always papers to be signed for school. There are always things to clean that I feel like I just cleaned only moments ago. While picking up toys, hanging up backpacks and pushing in chairs, I dream of air almost too thick to breathe. I dream of the generous boughs of the plantain tree and the xylophone music of the coqui frog, teasing me for being non-native.
While setting the table, I decide that it is cruel to have visited there. I will not enjoy the snow in winter now that I have felt the sand between my toes. Don't go. It will only make you ache with an inverted homesickness.