Wild Florida Kind of Love

Do we stay? It’s the question asked when whirling demons of air spiral their way across saltwater hurling toward our Florida shoreline. Those of us born of this sand find it impossible to abandon her storm surging sea as that same saltwater pumps through our veins. We remain devoted to our love affair, staying by her side through the worst.

We stay as the blustery gale scratches like a wild animal trying to claw its way into the safety of our sanctuary. We stay as the frogs croak their discontent over the hurricane’s heavy bands of rain. We stay as their groans grow louder than the roaring wind pressing and pulling in gusts against the windowpane.

The lights flicker on and off, on and off, teasing us with threats of abandonment with no promise of return. I am the only adult at home as my husband holds vigil over one of the hospitals he manages, choosing the one whose walls bleed hurricane rain. He will attempt sleep, but the perpetual emergencies will prevent it. He will return to us depleted. We don’t mind, as long as he is safe within our arms once more.

The eerie howls of increasing wind speed brings a shadow over my son’s face. “Mom, it’s like our house is haunted now.” The others nod in agreement, too fearful to venture upstairs. Their mattresses litter our living room floor with blankets and pillows tossed like confetti.

My son begs his teenage brother for one of his legendary puppet shows. Reluctant, he glances my way, too embarrassed to perform in my presence. I encourage him with a smile, cautious not to appear too eager. He relents. The menagerie of stuffed animals come alive as they contort, scream, and even fart (as per the younger brother’s wishes), and even the girls watch with bleary-eyed laughter. The contours of their profiles are lit by the warmth of flickering lamplight, and though the storm rages on, I want to lock this moment deep in the vault of my most sacred memories.

We attempt sleep. Their four bodies lying in a row breathe in and out with rhythmic ease. I toss and turn in a fitful slumber when a flash flood warning rings its siren alarm. The ghost of Helene’s devastation in the mountains ignites my maternal anxiety. I rise from my bed with the story of a seven-year-old’s body found dead in a tree fueling my protective instincts. I wonder if I will find the brackish waters of the intracoastal ascending our three-foot foundation. Will the waters slip through the crevices of our doors and windows poisoning our dwelling with rot and mold?

The door to our kitchen strains against my hand, desperate to fly from my grip like a toddler squirming from a mother’s arms. There are no flood waters, only puddles scattered throughout our acres of Florida wild. I breathe out relief and watch the wind ebb and flow as if deciding how much of its true might to reveal to us mortals.

Through the intermittent cellular service, I hear the weather reporter promise the worst will soon be over. Miraculously, we still have power, so for the third time within twenty-four hours I stand under the showerhead washing and conditioning my hair with agonizing speed. Perhaps it will be the last one until days of hurricane clean-up turn me greasy with no hot water to expunge my filth. I’m curious if the water oak in our front yard will finally release its rotting trunk and tumble, or if it will hold with enduring vigor? The loud smash outside my window reminds me that no amount of willpower can outlast these agonizing hours of battering.

We wait for the sun to rise, divulging the full measure of devastation. We will see footage of the tornados ripping homes apart, the flood waters pushing families onto one-story rooftops, the alligator jauntily taking back its original home, and the roads crumbling into the earth that washed away beneath its powerful surface. We wait, we hope, and then we rebuild in this wild land that we love.

Those of us bound to Florida embody a special kind of insanity as the wildness of this land rooted itself deeply in our hearts long ago. This untamed place of flowers was our cradle, rocking us in the warmth of sandcastles and mermaid tails. For many of us she will be our grave as we return to the wilds of her soil and waters where our soul first drew its breath.