Back to 1938.

I am sitting outside my home in the G. W. Andrade circle just off of “Main Highway,” the little dirt road that is the lifeblood of our neighborhood. A fair late-autumn breeze blows about the limbs of the slash pine stands around me. I am on a cane lounger, straw boater pulled low over my face, round horn-rimmed sunglasses slowly slipping down the bridge of my nose in my noonday nap. It’s completely quiet except for the cicadas and the occasional distant shouts from the nearby Bahamian community as they erect a shotgun dwelling. I feel a gentle hand tug at my right foot and I’m filled with a sense of well-being. If I am patient I might be rewarded with another. Her silk touch…

The Miami Symphony Orchestra starts tuning its brass on the nearby street and I come to, awakened, it’s 2016.