There’s that moment when you realize you’ve been defined by a city you don’t even relate to, a town you’ve been dubbed by due to proximity. It’s like being raised by wolves, except that the wolves are the rich and elderly, their packs are defined by white picket fences and book club membership enrollments, their prey set before them prepared on silver plated platters. It’s Palm Beach, baby, land of money as old as the laws that govern our political system.
Pride here can be both seen carved into knuckles trekking past the railroad tracks and unseen under the brows of those who can’t perceive past the tips of their upturned noses. We could meet in the middle if there were one to share, but the polarity has everyone so far removed that I removed myself from the confines and fled to higher ground.
I come back once, maybe twice per year to see if anything has changed, but everyone is still wrapped up doing this, getting roped into doing that, tangled in the material that bound them to this place 20-something years ago before they knew they could cut ties.
Maybe one day I’ll find that seeds don’t fall far from the tree, but so far I’ve been sown otherwise.