09 Peppermint Mocha by Haley C. Kollstedt Saturday, November 30th. RSW airport (which we remember as “really swell waves”), Ft. Myers, Florida. I’ve never traveled during Thanksgiving break until now. Getting here was easy. Dad’s a Delta Pilot, and I can use the Standby benefits. I’ve got time before my flight back home. Aunt Lisa insisted I arrive almost three hours in advance. “Thanksgiving,” she said, over and over, reminding me of the snapshots we’d seen on WINK news, the people piling into terminals like pill bugs under a log, suitcases in tow and slugcurved pillows around their necks. Tired. Bloated. Holidayed-out. Security is a breeze for me. The crowds aren’t half as bad as we’d expected, and I emerge from the line like a mackerel slipping from a net. The floors glisten with the pearlescent etchings of shells. They’re almost marble but not quite, and I find myself trying not to step on the lines. These floors hold something for me. Ft. Myers, Florida: home of Aunt Lisa, Uncle Mark, and my eternal summer. The place I dream about on those wet days back in Ohio, when I say to my mom, “it smells like there’s an ocean nearby,” even though we both know it’s an illusion. It’s the place where I can lick my face after going for a walk and ever-so-slightly taste the salt. The
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