The slow restoration of a weary soul

The air is humid, the heavy fronds of tropical plants surrounding me as I sit on a brick patio in front of a pink tile-roofed house. Tiny lizards scamper in and out of the foliage, and I look them in the eye as they greet me. I exhale the breath out of my chest slowly and check the time on my phone. My delivery of coffee is several minutes late, and that familiar feeling that tickles the back of my throat tells me my liquid wake-up call is nearly here.

We snuck away to a small slice of paradise for the first time in one year. With the world upside down, there is no good time to do it. You just go and take care how you can. We donned our masks and climbed into that big bird that flew us south.

We never do things months in advance, so our tickets were purchased less than a week before we left. When folks plan things six months ahead, my brain kind of rocks in its casing for just a tick. So much could happen between now and then, and how can I get a ticket or reserve a rental with that much time to change my mind?

My husband is softly snoring just inside the door to our small studio Airbnb. It’s a small Adobe home split into three sections, and since we checked in, we’ve discussed how the layout must have looked like before.

“They must have closed that wall up right beside the outline of that fireplace,” George said, me nodding in agreement. There’s an open loft area above us that signals the ceiling of the original home was once light and airy, enough to circulate the tropical density that settles. When we lay down to sleep, we wonder about the two small doors that open to nowhere.

I’m glad they didn’t tear down this property to build a new-fangled building with no character, like the two that sit right beside it on this side street. The person who greeted us upon arrival told us if we hear any noises the next morning that it’s just them, picking up and trimming foliage. She said the owner of the new building doesn’t like tropical leaves falling on their side, and I wonder if they realize who was here first and how old these beautiful trees are that have grown up through the sandy soil.

We have fallen into familiar patterns, my husband and I. We love a good omelette and strong coffee in a diner mug by the shore, the soft lap of the waves heightening our senses to the day. We rent two seats and an umbrella and arrange ourselves. Suntan lotion is smoothed on, and with economy of movement, we walk to the water and float, tooling around in the calm waters, then back to the chairs to rest.

There are no children and chairs and beach toys to wrangle anymore. We adjust our sunglasses, making sure our foreheads have enough lotion, and close our eyes, the soft reggae music coming from the bar behind us enough to lull us to sleep.

We are not splashy or ostentatious. We are economical where we can be, sometimes spending a few more dollars on a good meal. The ceviche we consumed yesterday, gentle layers of shrimp and fish laced with lime, spice and manna from heaven, still remains on my tongue.

My coffee has arrived, and I’m sipping slowly, savoring its restorative powers. The sky is cloudy, the cloudy only tropical spaces know — the promise of brilliant sun and balmy breezes to come. My husband is awake, stirred by the smell of caffeine. I rise from my small table outside and go to say good morning.

Melissa Herrera is a columnist, published author and drinker of too many coffees. You can find her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” atwww.tinyurl.com/Tonolives or buy one from her in person (because all authors have boxes of their own novel). For inquiries or to purchase, email her atjunkbabe68@gmail.com.