Florida.

I took a plane to the coast. To see an old friend, to flee from the surrounding mountains. Denver had sufficient air conditioning that kept my lips blue and my body rickety. Atlanta had ripped bench seats and shiny windows. Jacksonville had Chelsey and cellophane and humid breath, my skin was sticky like syrup. The three of us spent warm nights folded in patchwork quilts, remembering younger years.

Lake Alice led me to a lazy alligator, swishing his tail in midnight waves. We waited on chipping benches, viewing man-made attics house thin wings. We waited while the sun slithered down branches, surrounding us in darkness. They soon appeared: 45,000 bats, trickling from the attics, gliding through the sultry air with their webbed hands. Enveloping the skies, circling overhead, I fell in the love with their fragile hearts.

Lush, green overgrowth covered the cities. Jungles lined front yards and wooden swings and dusty back roads. Emerald fingers poisoned busy highways. Callow vines stretched themselves past yellow boundaries. Wildflowers thrived in overgrown cemeteries, sprouting their vibrant petals through the cracks of toppling tombstones.

I flexed my toes on the shore of Crescent Beach, daintily letting the white waves brush against my skin. I watched as think foam ran over footprints, erasing all evidence of previous humanity. I inspected my own indentations, untouched by the ocean’s salty brine. It was nice to think I was the first one there. We ran out into the sea, rolling with the whitecaps and diving with the wrinkled water. We wandered the coast, gathering washed-up shells and splashing in tide pools.

We were free little birds.

Chelsey, Madison, Haeleigh