It’s the end of the month.  The 31st day of January. Tomorrow – the 1st day of February – is the start of the most popular season on the Florida Keys; namely, the months of February, March and April. It’s the time when most so-called “snowbirds” from northern places such as Michigan and Canada traditionally make their way here to escape the rigours of winter. Recently I heard it said by someone who had the air of first-hand knowledge that anything in the Keys beyond the month of April is intolerable, that the ambient temperatures are by then unforgiving.

I arose from the lair this morning before eight o’clock, earlier than my usual.  Today – the 31st of January – is notable for me for the reason that it signals the end of my greedy consumption of Irish butter, peanut butter and honey. And Philadelphia cream cheese. I have resolved to begin a routine starting tomorrow – the 1st day of February – to control my carefree input of undeniably fattening ingredients. Whether this effort will be sustainable has yet to be seen. But I am employing the seasonal metaphor of February, March and April to capture my personal season of alteration.

Meanwhile it was back to business as usual today on Key Largo.  Following my final breakfast of outrageous indulgence, and an uncommonly brief ride upon my Sun tricycle, I resorted to the nearby swimming pool where to my delight there were no others already there foregathered. Only the ghosts of my erstwhile acquaintances from Indiana lingered. I recollected they were already on the road, heading back north.  I rose above the dissolving memory and swiftly secured my preferred chaise longue where only yesterday Brother Daryl had been languishing in the late afternoon sunshine, his appearance remarkably brown.

It wasn’t until almost 1:30 pm that two others – probably new arrivals judging by their milky skin colour – positioned themselves nearby, preserving momentarily synthetic cover to protect against what was by then radiant heat from a blazing white orb. Others soon followed, stationing themselves in line with the revolving sun. Some ventured into the pool. Others plonked themselves under the pergola and immediately began reading a book with an air of sub-tropical sublimity.

Interspersed with these arrivals were my communications with two women; one, a dear friend back home; the other, someone currently holidaying in Jamaica and who oddly took the time to thank me for matters hearkening back to my days of professional law practice from which I retired almost a decade ago. The latter exchange was entirely unanticipated and frankly singular.