It was February 29 again, and I was wondering which member of my family would try to kill me this time. I had just poured myself a hot cup of coffee and stirred in a dash of sugar, and found myself in my favourite spot on the balcony, watching the sun crest over the ocean. I never realized that it was still February, until I opened up the newspaper that was delivered to my door this morning, before I crawled out of bed.
As I sat in the aromas of the fresh java and the ocean breeze, I took a deep breath and leaned my head against the back of the chair pad. As I closed my eyes, the memory of her face flooded the darkness. Those crystal sapphire eyes, her perfectly high cheekbones and her natural red pouty lips were impossible to forget. Her hair was as black as the richest ebony and her skin was an olive tone that would turn a golden toasted brown under the Caribbean sun. She was perfect in every single way; her laugh, her athletically toned body, and especially her scent. She embodied tropical mystery, with the delicate odour of calendula, coconut and a hint of jasmine. The very thought of her, and the way she always smelled made the hairs on my body stand at attention and a shiver coursed through me, like a tidal wave, washing over my head to the soles of my feet. She was the love of my life. She was my everything, and today was the 8th anniversary of her death.
