Mired in misery and fear is a southern town some say lost its hospitality along the way. Where comfort is a waterfront plantation on a hilltop nestled between wealth and privilege for as many generations as recorded in the town’s historic buildings. And the beauty of days past is dutifully preserved in gardens in ever perfect bloom arising from ancient soil. Distance calls it perfection.
I have left my most difficult memories on that very water-front. Quietly salting the sea from a pier, on a bank, or forsaken stretch of still beach. It so easily calls the pain from me. And when the pain has been drained from me and makes its home amongst its kind in the fairest town, the dead spirits hasten my departure
“Flee and never return.” Say the dead spirits– buried and walking. “Except to empty your pockets in my unwelcoming shops I’ve selected to rob you.”
The haunting laughter of a child-like spirit says, “Don’t bother coming near our parks; children of the living dead don’t acknowledge human existence.”
But I am neither afraid or without hope. I look into the quiet still sea, and I am captured once more by the reflection of an immaculate backdrop of glistening flora and wonder for a moment if it could be the fairest town of all. And the sea turns away–scattering the image revealing the truth…