Letter to Knightly

3.17 pm

It's not that I want to live in Florida again. Really. I don't even like the state. Sinkholes and swamps are the dominant geographical features, fire ants and crocodiles the dominant life forms, and hurricanes the dominant weather pattern. Still, every time I go back I have this strange feeling, as if I'm coming home.

My aunt died at 4am Tuesday morning, Eastern Standard Time, in a hospice in Jacksonville, Florida. We knew she was sick, but we hadn't expected the end to come quite so quickly. My mother called me a few hours later and told me to buy a plane ticket. I stumbled out of bed and to the phone, then went through a whirlwind of a day trying to get everything ready.

We all flew into Jacksonville, then drove to Gainesville, where my mom and her sisters grew up, where their parents are buried. I got in just ahead of a violent thunderstorm, the same system that killed 56 people earlier this week. It threatened and rumbled all night, but waited to break until Thursday, after we'd buried my aunt.

The cemetery she's in is an old Jewish Cemetery, with graves dating back to the 1800's and early 1900's. My mom takes us by every time we're in Florida. People place small stones on the headstones instead of flowers or teddy bears. My aunt's grave is not next to my grandparents' - the space next to them was unusable because of tree roots. The funeral home suggested digging the grave askew and placing the headstone parallel to the others.

3.34 pm

I flew out through Miami. I thought about calling you, but the layover was only two hours. Not long enough to get out and get back through security. Besides, some things are better left undone. I'm not writing, really, but I'm doing well in school. Although I've acquired the reputation of a gunner. You expected that, I think.

Do something for me, will you? The next time you see the wind blow through the palm trees, tucking their heads under their shoulders, think of me.