Saltwater Slow

I left my phone in the house
and found hours hidden in the tide—
days unfolding like seafoam,
soft and slow, like they knew I needed more time.

We floated in still water,
the kind that doesn’t just cool your skin
but soaks into something deeper—
into the weight you didn’t know you were carrying.

The sandbar was our table,
saltwater our wine,
and laughter spilled from our lips
like we were made for this kind of living.

The neighbors waved like old friends.
The shop owners smiled like they’d been waiting
for us to slow down and notice
the way the sun melts into the Gulf like butter.

No pings.
No scrolls.
No comparisons.

Just water,
and sky,
and family.
And the kind of peace
you don’t find in air conditioning.

It was the weekend that felt like a week—
the kind that stretches when you’re fully present,
when your only schedule is the rhythm of the waves.

I finally understood the hype—
why people trade their clocks for hammocks,
their high-rises for herons,
and their stress for this slow, golden rhythm
called the Keys.

Author’s Note

I’ve never felt time slow the way it did in the Florida Keys. We were only there for a weekend, but it stretched out like an entire week — not in the way vacations sometimes drag, but in the best possible way. Everything felt unrushed. Unbothered. Like the world paused just long enough to let me breathe for real.

I barely touched my phone. Not by force or discipline, but because I genuinely didn’t want to. I didn’t want to interrupt the stillness with notifications. I didn’t want to scroll past what was right in front of me — my baby’s giggles in the pool, the way the sky melted into the ocean, or the strangers who waved like we were already neighbors.

There was something sacred about how simple it all was. Sandbars. Pool floats. A breeze that didn’t ask for anything but your attention. Even now, it feels a little unreal — like I stepped out of my regular life and into a quieter one that had always been waiting for me.

This poem came from that feeling. From that pause. From realizing just how loud everything else in my life had become — and how easy it was to forget what peace felt like until I was standing in the middle of it.

I get it now. Why people want to move there. Why they never leave.
And why I wrote this.