Crossing the Causeway

I cannot believe I am actually returning to Sanibel Island, and in fact crossing the causeway — a symbolic bridge to my old life, in which I had long ago said goodbye. I swore to myself I would never look back, yet somehow my never-ceasing empathic nature is replacing my decades-old promise. Perhaps it is growing up on Sanibel Island that ignited my empathic and nurturing nature — that, and my alcoholic, anger-driven, and dominating excuse for a father.

I believe the empathy my father should have had got buried, little by little, throughout his life — like when the calm and gentle waves from the Gulf slowly bury certain seashells on the shore, lapping time and again. Unfortunately, his empathy, kindness, and compassion — seashells of understanding — were never uncovered, never brought back up to the surface of the sand by any type of caressing wave.

They drowned in alcohol instead.

That is the reason for his abrupt death, according to my mother. My father acquired alcohol-related cirrhosis of his liver. He drank until the end, not listening to the doctors, the tests, and especially not listening to my very devoted mother — of which, to this day, I do not understand.

My soft-spoken, well-mannered, even-tempered mother (everything my father wasn’t) refused to part ways with him. How can you live with a person who is like a hovering jellyfish, his tentacles reaching out to grasp and sting when you are within reach? I gave up on trying to please him in early adolescence. I finally realized how fruitless attempting to gain his love and attention was — just like reaching out to a lingering stone crab to get pinched over and over.

Eventually, you learn.

Crossing a higher section of the causeway, I am able to locate the Sanibel Lighthouse ahead, its skeletal iron frame a surprisingly warm welcome. Smiling inwardly, I recall designating the lighthouse a symbol of light and hope as a child. I believed no matter how stormy, treacherous, and impossible life may be, there will always be a light that can break through any type of darkness and chaos to guide you to safety. As I grew up, I strongly believed the direction the light was pointing was away — away from the island I grew up on and toward a better place where the tentacles cannot reach and the claws cannot seize.

Alas, it has been twenty years since my departure from this Floridian paradise-captivity, but my non-yielding mother has paid me numerous visits to my “new” home in Charlotte, North Carolina. To believe my father would be proud of his only daughter (only child) graduating from Duke University with a master’s degree in Economics, all by scholarship — but no, that would be too much to ask.

“Serena is just going to college because she does not want to face the real world. Her head is always in the clouds,” is what he always said.

How could I forget? Was I really expecting praise for an accomplishment I worked extremely hard for? Even at a very young age, I understood my only real chance to escape the island would be through a strong education. This also meant long, demanding, and grueling hours of study, locked in the confinement of my bedroom. This also fashioned me his target, as I was always within reach of those stinging appendages.

“Serena, why don’t you ever party like all of the other kids? Why are you always so serious and alone in your room? Books are for nerds and people who are scared to live in the real world! There is something wrong with this girl!”

I shook my head at the memory, realizing the causeway was nearing its end. The breathtaking tropical flora glimmered under the lucent sun, the cerulean blue sky, and cyan gentle Gulf waters evaporating past thoughts and tensions. Seagulls, pelicans, and other birds trilled out in welcome, clueless as to my situation.

“Welcome, Serena! Squawk! Squawk!”

Well, here I am — only this time to say goodbye — goodbye to the island of yesterday’s tears and asperity. Now is the time to bury yesterday’s memories and past grievances, to bury the invisible scars and the Serena of the past, and of course — to bury the father that never was. It is time to reclaim the captivating island I grew up on, to be able to finally breathe in the lush, salty breeze and not always feel smothered and choked by dry sand caked in my throat.

“Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!”

Wow, what a welcome committee this morning.

I remember sitting on the powdery white sand as a child and watching the seagulls fly off into the welcoming, always color-changing horizon. I have always embraced and admired the freedom of birds, their gracefulness, the way they care for their own.

As I am nearing my mother’s house — the house I grew up in — I am feeling a surge of quiet strength that surprises me. I look around and everything is very exquisite — the tropical greens so lustrous, the mangroves so plentiful and interconnected, the hibiscus, bougainvillea, and other native flowers more radiant and even joyful-looking in their bright pinks and reds.

Are they smiling at me? Are they happy I am back?

I now realize I have never truly seen my island. My vision, island, and hopeful thoughts were blanketed in a gray fog of despair growing up, and now this blanket has finally been lifted.

I am here, and my Sanibel Island is calling out to me, inviting me to receive and finally be a part of its maritime beauty, wonder, and magic. I imagine finding and picking up a large, flawless, whorly conch shell and placing it to my ear. Whispers of joy, assurance, and strength emanate from its pink inner core and evaporate all past despondence.

Parking my car, I slowly walk toward my mother’s home — my home of the past. I smile as I realize I am now home as well. Sanibel Island has and always will be my forever home.