Blue Marlin Hotel, 2014 | Sydney Wright

SYDNEY WRIGHT

To relive when I was thirteen standing on sticky bleach-scented Miami art-deco tile in a little motel wearing the colors of 1960 Key West.

To wrap my arm around Grandpa at the “90 Miles To Cuba”concrete missile that sits on the island’s western shore just off Mallory Square where every night they hold a festival celebrating the sunset and a man seduces Hemingway’s six-toed cats into jumping through hoops.

Every narrow-street block claustrophobically cluttered in teal-lettered storefronts and beach-themed canvas art street carts selling Key lime pie dipped in dark chocolate and stuck on a stick.

They say in thirty years Florida will be underwater but I suppose it doesn’t matter when those who made you eat minestrone soup at a tiki bar and ride a bicycle carriage down the humid roads at 10 p.m. in late July are too old to travel.