Time rushes on. A minute ago it was January. A year ago we left Florida for up north to be near, nearer, family. Leaving a place that has been home is bittersweet. The compelling reasons take a backseat as the day of departure approaches, and the smallest moments of beauty and wonder hit hard.
Morning opens over the ocean coloring the skies a glowing rose-dappled golden tangerine and a lone pelican wafts across the sun. Palm fronds rush in balmy breezes. Dolphin breech their own delight. Starfish wriggle in tidal pools and jellyfish float lazily in the tidal river rising.
The great white egrets wander, extending ballerina necks into tall pampas grasses and flocks of hook-beaked ibis graze and probe the shallow wetlands, the sandy lawns. The warmth and laughter of Floridian friends as we linger over long lunches. All these I want to keep with me.
And so, knowing I will leave this all behind, I started to write Sula’s story. It was supposed to be a funny story about Sam and Sula, twins named for the place where they were born.
But as happens when pen hits paper, the story took on its own path, and Sam was dead before the first page turned and a different narrative took shape. One that grew out of a phrase that had haunted me since I’d first heard it said by a young friend. One of those phrases that writers keep in a file where it waits for its story.
My name is Sula Mae Low. I am twelve years old. Until today I was a twin. Sam said I was a twin no matter what. Old Man Meyers says Sam was right, but also wrong. Granny Pauline says we’ll feel him gone a while, but then he’ll be back with us.
“Like Mama?” I ask her.
Granny grits her teeth, squints her eyes, and snaps at me like an old gator snapper that them chores aren’t gonna get themselves done.
I don’t know what Mama says on account of her not being anywhere to be found most days. And when she does show herself, she shows mean.
The story that starts today is a whole new story. Like my world stopped at a station where I never been. And with a lick and a spit, smirked hard and told me to get off.
And good luck.
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