Until we come face to face with its deception and realize there are holes in our lives that memories can't patch up.
Cardinal Island was my hole, the rift I'd come back to confront only to discover it was actually an abyss.
With my hands curled around the latte I'd got from the Flour Garden--no Starbucks for Cardinal Island, no siree bob, too commercial for these pompous locals--I gazed around the central square of downtown, watching people go about their daily business. It was them as much as the architecture that left me dazed. In my head, Cardinal residents never did their own shopping, and yet, I counted three different mother and offspring sets doing just that. More bizarrely, nearly everyone who walked by greeted me with a smile.
Do you remember me? I'd think as each one passed me.
If they did, they gave no indication beyond their cordial welcome of waggled fingers or the curl of their mouths. I was a mystery, the unknown in their midst. Perhaps locals confronted their enigmas head on these days rather than in the whispers and closed doors of yore.