Faded Snapshots
The other day, while rummaging through the huge wicker chest in my office for something I cannot remember, I saw an old Montecristo N°4 cigar box. In the aged tobacco-scented box was a long expired passport and a few faded snapshots, including this one. I remember well those tranquil weeks on that tiny island in the Seychelles. Ideling away many an afternoon, reading Twain’s “Following the Equator” in that old weathered chair, Hendrick’s and tonic in hand while palm fronds overhead gently rustled in the sea breeze.