Bottlebrush trees remind me of Galveston, and my aunt, and the long hot days and frigid air-conditioned nights I spent there, with her. They remind me of hummingbirds and the incredible fantasy that nature embraces. They bring to mind the sound of the mourning dove, which is one of my favorite things to hear.
Mailboxes spark my curiosity, my sense that something might be waiting for someone, some words that could change things, could open things, could end things. How many wonderful letters I’ve received in my life; I should be writing more.
The last note my aunt ever wrote me was one she left on the corkboard in the kitchen the summer before she died. She knew I’d be up early to run, though how I went running in Galveston, in August, is beyond me now. Who was I then? Hard to say. But she left me a note, and something made me keep it. Some knowledge beyond knowledge, perhaps; she died a handful of months later.
I carried that note with me in my wallet until it was stolen out my car a year later. It was the only thing from the break-in that I mourned.
I never realized how much Galveston is a part of my heart’s peace until I moved to a town near the water where the bottlebrush grow. Where the hummingbirds whirr and dive. Where I listen to the mourning doves, and am soothed.
The Wandering Introvert 