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The Island Keeps Finding Me

I wrote more in Bermuda
than I have in a long time.

Maybe because the island
has a way of quieting
everything that doesn’t matter.

I watched my children
run across pink sand,
laugh at the Gombeys,
taste the food,
and fall in love
with a place
that loved my father first.

I drove roads
he once knew by heart.

Breathed air
that once filled his lungs.

Stood beneath the same sky
that watched him dream.

Somehow,
it didn’t feel like chasing him.

It felt like meeting
the parts of him
he left behind for us.

Bermuda has never asked me
to hurry.

It simply reminds me
that stillness
can be sacred.

And every time I leave,

I bring home
a little more of myself.