“Mommy, can we go into the ocean now?”

I slowly stand and untie the sarong from my hips and gently toss my hair to shake out the sand.  This sends the little feet beside me dancing, anticipating the splashes to come.

The shock from the chilly sea jolts me back to reality.

I am actually in my living room, sitting in an armchair.  I must have dozed off momentarily while my daughter sleeps on the sofa.

My body sits still as my head continues to swirl.

It wasn’t really a dream.  It happened.

Six months ago in a warmer place, during a more carefree time.

When the only temperature that mattered was the atmosphere outside, and thermometers were rarely placed under a tongue.

Where living is done outdoors, and no age limit applies to getting drunk on the sun.

A time when sunshine fueled the energy of my child.

We are coming up to day 7 of sickness in our house.  My daughter’s fever continues to linger and is taking its sweet time to taper down.    This is the longest she has ever been ill, and I’m sure her hacking cough will persist for weeks.  I am keeping a close eye for any pneumonia-like symptoms.

Her pediatrician says she most likely has H1N1 (her official diagnosis today after dodging our calls all week).

We have been cooped up inside since last week Friday.  In that time, the temperature outside has dipped down and a new batch of leaves blanket our yard.

When we look out the window, the tree in our backyard is just about barren now.

Every leaf fallen, leaving an arbor ghost.

Each one gone, except one.

Dadisodes is back to work. Toys are strewn across the living room floor.  And I have my laptop cracked open to begin the daunting task of checking my inbox.

Despite the 150+ unopened emails, I constantly find my fingers migrating back to the mouse pad to click on photos from our trip.  I must have taken over 500 photos during our vacation, and right now, they are the only physical evidence that I was actually there.  Proof that it was not dream.  A reminder, that for brief moments, our life existed over there.

For two whole weeks, I always had an extra set of loving hands to care for my daughter.   I sipped wine with old friends.  Dadisodes and I snuck away to the most beautiful coastline we have ever seen.   I visited the stomping grounds of my twenties.  And I made my way back through the halls of my grandmother’s house.  Her 1940’s pink, tiled walls transporting me to a more simple time.  Sleeping over her house meant endless treats, stacking mah-jongg pieces, and picking mangos from her tree.  They were all still there.  Frozen in time behind her cement walls. Only last week, its novelty and excitement lit my daughter’s eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, the comforts of having my own bed and pillows, our clothes folded back inside our dresser drawers, all feel and fit nicely. But at the same time, it’s hard to ignore my new honey-toned skin, my daughter’s sun-drenched hair, and the excitement in her voice spouting new words in Cantonese.

I wish they would never fade.

But they will.

In a few weeks, my bikini lines will lighten, Babisodes’ hair will darken, and grandma will have to convey via telephone how to say things in Chinese.  Slowly, the three of us will settle ourselves back into our usual mold.

But for now, Babisodes is still recovering from her grandparent hangover, while Dadisodes is busy planning for our retirement in someplace tropical.

As for me, although I am physically back in Massachusetts, my mind lies somewhere along the Florida coastline, reluctant to return with the tide.

It still longs for the simplicity, warmth, and breathtaking views of life over there.

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