Replacements

When traveling, I am often reminded that given enough time, beauty and peace can replace the most inhospitable of situations.

The White Street Pier in Key West, "the unfinished highway to Cuba," is the southernmost point in Florida.  In the early morning, visitors mingle with Key West residents and their dogs, strolling to the end of the pier.

The concrete pier is wide and low, resting a few feet above the water.  On all sides the clear water is shallow, reflecting the sun.  Dotted about are rough rocks and small fish slither in the luminous green water.

Shore birds wait for a quick meal.

The AIDS memorial is located near here, as well as a sign marking the burial ground for 294 Africans slaves who were rescued from three slave ships bound for Cuba, who then died.  The graves and the names have long disappeared. 

Also here are the Martello Towers, ruins from a fort used by the by the North to blockade the South, to starve the enemy during the Civil War.

The West Martello Tower was constructed over the burial ground of the unremembered Africans, and now these ruins enclose a tropical garden.

We parked our car under a sea grape tree and entered the old fort through a series of brick archways.

Paths meander around the garden through areas of sun and shade.  A tropical  clerodendrum vine spread across the roof of the visitors area.

Pools of yellow and orange sedums grow in the hot sandy soil near the exit.

Other plants are drab, but are structurally interesting.  The strangler fig takes root in the branches of another plant, then grows long roots to the soil, surrounding and strangling the original plant.  This tree is native to Florida and grows to 100 feet.

The autograph tree has been signed by many visitors.  By invitation?  I don't know.

The devil's backbone wins the award for interesting name.

The garden hosts a sculpture exhibit.  My favorite is Wall of Wisdom by local artist Susan Johnson.

But no sculpture could match the beauty of nature.  Here an agave and two palms soak up the sun against a backdrop of miles of ocean.

I learned of this garden years ago on a television show, Gardener's Diary with Erica Glasener, who had interviewed Joe Allen, the patron of the garden. 

Yet that garden had been destroyed in a hurricane and was replaced by a new tropical garden developed by the Key West Garden Club.

The nameless Africans were covered by a fort, planted into a garden, replaced by a tropical paradise.  As life goes on, pain is sometimes replaced by beauty.  The pain disappears, as if it never existed.

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The day after

The day after the surgeon gave us the news, I awoke early after a brief and fitful sleep and stepped quietly to the living room.  The early morning was cool and the birds called to each other in Papa's garden. 

I glanced down at family photos on a shelf near the window.  One was a wide range shot taken at Nancy's house at least 10 years ago, an informal gathering of 10 family members from three generations clustered on the driveway after a cookout.  At far right is my father in white shirt and blue trousers, a square wristwatch on his arm.  He smiles widely beneath his white trucker's cap with a red bill.

I looked at the smile in his eyes, behind his glasses.  Then there in my living room, I felt him by my side, reassuring me that things would be fine, no matter what happened.  Then the dog shook in her crate and the moment was gone.

I went back this morning after a restful nights sleep.  I could feel the strength, love and support of husband, daughters, and sisters, the thunder of prayers from family, friends and coworkers.  I took the photograph from the shelf and looked at my dad, but the moment did not reoccur. 

Perhaps he had communicated all that he wanted and was sitting peacefully on the concrete bench, enjoying the morning calls of the birds in Papa's garden.