All I can write about this week is the heat. The 90-degree days remind me of summers in Florida when Grandma Carnohan cut my sister and my hair and dragged us to Cyprus Gardens.
I loved watching the water skiers perform their routines, but the hikes through the park's rain forest turned my face red and my mood cranky.
I don't remember as much as I should about these visits, and maybe have reconstructed them because my sister and I look so miserable in the pictures on the Cyprus trails.
But some of the smells and sensations seem true. The rich wet and moss smelled like bitter root vegetables, scents of beets my mom tried to feed us.
Salty sweat rolled into my nose and lips in spite of my pixie hair; yet sweet gardenias and birds of paradise cut through the thick air like spoons of sugar in my tea.
Today I spend much of my time behind closed blinds but remember Grandma's adventure.
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