Author: Britt Skrabanek

Her parents were rebels of writing. They both had the most beautifully off-kilter handwriting that ever graced the blank canvas of a page. Yet, a revolving door of teachers and bosses reprimanded her parents for their uniqueness. Bee would later undergo the same disciplinary fate.

Bee’s dad was the meticulous creator. Every letter felt like a patch on a handstitched quilt—with its own color scheme, its own pattern, its own material, its own story to tell.

He wrote in all caps…

WHEN HE WROTE POETRY, IT WAS LIKE HE SHOUTED AT THE WORLD. PERHAPS THAT WAS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE WOULD LISTEN TO HIS INNERMOST THOUGHTS. HER DAD RARELY WORE HIS HEART ON HIS SLEEVE UNLESS HE WAS WRITING. THIS WAS THE QUIET SPACE WHERE HE COULD SCREAM.

Bee’s mom was the elegant trailblazer. Every letter felt like a figure skater practicing her spiral—one leg extended behind her, leaning the other way for balance as she glided across the ice.

She wrote in backwards italics (slanting left, instead of right)…

When she wrote essays, it was like she was pulling away from the world. Perhaps that was the only way anyone would notice her innermost thoughts. Her mom rarely broadcasted her intelligence unless she was writing. This was the sitting room where she could stand.

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She knocked three times with one of those brass handles you only see on ancient doors in obscure European towns. Bee touched the deep ridges on the worn wooden door. They were like wrinkles formed by a lifetime of highs and lows.

When Anthony Bourdain opened the heavy door, barefoot and dressed in a long Kaftan, Bee knew she was dreaming. The smell of stale cigarettes and booze overpowered the scents of baked goods already permeating the air.

In real life, Tony hung himself in a town in France—much like this one in her subconscious mind. Yet there he was, hungover in his nighty.

Bourdain never asked Bee who she was or why she stood on his doorstep like some groupie. He stared back, an inquisitive brow raised high above his brown eyes.

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Twenty-two Westerners crowded the yoga studio on top of the vibrant green hill. Sitting tall and cross-legged, the yogis gazed at the distant volcanoes and the tangled jungle that stretched across the island. Sweat cascaded down their faces and backs, pooling upon their damp yoga mats.

Tension crept into their bodies. They felt a sudden urge to do everything at once to make up for the last 90 minutes where they spent time doing something for themselves.

Bee was no different from the other yogis. Her eyes darted from jungle treetops to the teacher’s serene face, from the yoga props littering the room and back again to the teacher.

This was her last yoga class before heading home in a few days. She began scheduling every last available minute, scheming ways to do more with the time she had left on the island—one more shopping trip, 2-4 more swims, one more deep tissue massage, more beauty and relaxation before it was all gone.

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