This morning I got a phone call from an old friend. He’d just stepped off a ship in Miami after spending the holidays in Belize. He noted he’d only hit the flats one morning, and only caught eight bonefish. Right about the time I started crying a river for this poor soul, he inquired as to where he might fish while in South Florida, with a notion to head for the Keys. With a nasty cold front right on top, I suggested he wait it out a day or two to see if things warm up, and at best make a run into Biscayne Bay for the spooks lurking in the channels.
Ok. Thanks Gracie. I’ll call you when I get home and tell you how it went.
You do that. Punk.
The pup has been banished to the perma-frosted backyard, as I don’t have the motivation for a walk just yet. I’m sitting at my desk guzzling black joe, and yet more tropical reminders stream in.
I head for the thermostat. Hit the “+” button a few times, and return to my chair. Look down. My feet are covered in…sandals. They’ve sat idle in my closet for at least two months. Why did I put them on this particular morning?
I peer over towards the bookshelf. A cup, now relegated to receipt bin, originally fabricated in the tropics some thirty-odd years ago, catches my eye. It has been within eyeshot for what seems like eternity, and I rarely give it a second thought. Why now I ask myself.
Friendly ghosts of the past? Subconscious yearning? Or signs of times to come?
MG signing off (to ponder that which is “…to be continued”)