Collecting bottles, tossing leftovers, taking out the garbage
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Connie May Fowler lives on a small Mexican island in the Caribbean, where she makes a mean mole sauce, has grown to hate cruise-ship tourists, and can say, “Please get out of my yard,” in Mayan. Her essay in this issue is from her forthcoming memoir, A Million Fragile Bones, about living through the BP Deepwater Horizon oil disaster. It will be published in April by Twisted Road Publications.
The wide sweep of the northern Gulf of Mexico and the Apalachee Bay is in perpetual motion, reshaping, and at times reclaiming, my front yard. Alligator Harbor, with its clear shallows and deceptive currents — pulled by the moon, the sun, the trickster we call weather — defines and sculpts my backyard, revising boundaries and property lines, confounding appraisers and owners alike.