I just spent an evening at the theater with the subject of this essay. So fitting to remember how our relationship started.
From the pay phone attached to the coral stucco wall of the La Jolla Resort, I could see the Chinese lanterns lit over the shuffleboard court, a couple sitting in lawn chairs holding hands and looking out on to the Florida Bay, a rented fishing boat with a Bimini top rocking, the sound of its sweet tapping carrying across the yard of sand and palm trees, softened by the bougainvillea draped at every turn, every corner.
It was 1988.
The trip to Islamorada was to celebrate my 40th birthday and the fact that we were finally out from under the expense and difficulty of having adopted a little boy from Nicaragua with a heart defect 18 months before. He had had surgery, was in day care, and was bright and happy. The four of us, my husband and I, our 15-year old daughter, and our mended boy were in love…
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