This morning, for the first time, my ancient Florida memories revived. I was walking up Margaret Street at six, on my way to Yankee Freedom’s trip to the Dry Tortugas.
Key West is eerie at six. The sky is blue velvet, and in the silence the palms clatter to a strange life, human-feeling. Their long trunks and massive heads whisper to the houses, and the houses whisper back.
Streetlamps shed a thin light, and as you pass the island cemetery the stacked coffins glimmer.
It was the scent and the feel of the air that revived my memory of waking up early in Florida campsites – the same warm salty wind, the same velvet sky. Or maybe I’m remembering the wildness of the palms against the subdued start of day.