CUR

The weather forecast repeats itself, the temperatures do not move in a year and our skins swell in the humid heat of the tiny island paradise near the equator. We buy our electricity from a tiny hut off the side of the road but live inside gates that presumably create more fear than they avoid harm. The little child looks so much like his father, their smiling faces greeting me outside the tiny airport like an impossible abstraction of a tiny earth. Here we are, and together, and isn't it the strangest thing, we said again and laughed, our feet in the salty waters of an unending sea and our faces turning brown in the afternoon sun. I dove out to the turquoise stretch where the sand was white, and its soft fine grains erased New York from the soles of my feet. 

There is no life lesson to be had here, no great revelation of what it is to be human. There is but the soft warmth of uncovered skin, peaceful smiles, a gentle breeze with the setting sun. 

It is but perfect.