November 13, 2017

I learned to swim in Bermuda, and I learned to ride a bike there. Many of my best childhood memories take place on the island. Bold encounters with Coral Beach waves; dodging crabs on my way home from the beach; ice cream sandwiches and maraschino cherries for tea; chicken à la king at my grandparent’s table. To go back there is always a walk down memory lane. Last week, I walked along the road that ran alongside my grandparent’s old cottage, where I learned to ride my white two-wheeler, and where I walked home everyday salty and sandy from the beach. It felt longer than I remember. So much felt different, in fact. My grandparent’s salmon pink house appeared less sunny and polished, and there were no land crabs scuttling in and out of the grass. The tropical foliage was wildly overgrown, and a trampoline stood where banana trees used to grow. That’s the thing about going back to places idealized by childhood –– they never feel the same. Places change, as do we. But Bermuda will always be a place I hold dear. Its where I learned to swim, where I learned to ride a bike, and where I turned 40, with the tree frogs all singing a familiar tune.


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