The Hammock


It’s what we did. Every night, we’d lazily walk out toward the ocean–pass the bar filled with loud mouths and empty words–following the sounds of the crashing waves. We’d take off our flip-flops and walk barefoot toward our spot. Yes, our spot. We’d staked claim to one particular hammock and we would’ve carved our initials into the adjoining palm trees if we could’ve. Our spot.

In the shadows of night, under a canvas of stars, JD and I talked about everything and nothing at once in the hammock. We’d recount our favorite high school memories, the first meal I made as a wife, the time I ran into a glass doorway, my secret dreams. I’d lay in my lover’s arms and press my face into his neck, inhaling a sweet musky scent of the day’s events. Sunblock, sweet plantains, and Newsweek magazine. I made him promise not to forget us. The simple us. The $5.99 pho and spring roll us. The kiss me with morning breath us. The Blockbuster night us. Made him promise not to forget who we are at that moment. Broken, thankful, content. And at the same time, entirely whole.

Yes, it was our spot. And though the hammock remains on the island of Puerto Rico, just off a private beach, we took home the distinct pleasure of knowing the future is unknown, but bright. We approach our hopes and goals with the full assurance that together, we’ll find a hammock any place in the world.