There are two islands off the mainland where I grew up. I spent all my childhood summers at the one with the L-shaped lot, in the shadows of the building where I now work. The other, I've spent all my free time as an adult drinking too many boozy beverages, researching her haunting history, and watching caged fish swim. Both are so close to each other that you can see them from their respective south and north ends, but it's funny how different their waters are. One, the waters are so salty, you need a bottle of tequila and a lime just to take a swim. The other, as sandy and tremulous as her past. One island, so clearly built for the rich pleasure of her occupants, a shell's throw away from the very land the Joneses owned and flaunted their own wealth, while her sister's sandy beaches are so shell-filled, bare feet are not recommended until you hit the water. How ironic then that the rich live on Shell Island and the shells on Pleasure Island.
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Photo by me