ATRIUM
Welcome to the fifth print issue of Atrium, a narrative nonfiction magazine produced by University of Florida students.
Our mission is simple: to tell true Florida stories. Our focus is on issues important and unique to the Sunshine State. Our hope is that through the prose, photography and poetry on our pages, we are able to share the voices of those who have not always been heard.
Atrium is named after the open space in Weimer Hall, home of the College of Journalism and Communications at the University of Florida. The atrium allows the Florida sun to shine in, bringing light into the heart of our building. Similarly, we hope our namesake magazine will help illuminate the heart of our state.
Happy Reading!
The Atrium team
SPECIAL THANKS
Atrium would not be possible without the support of the University of Florida College of Journalism and Communications.
Special thanks to Michael and Linda Connelly for their generous gift that promotes narrative nonfiction at UF; Associate Dean for Undergraduate Affairs Ted Spiker, without whom Atrium would be but a dream; CJC Dean Hub Brown; and Interim Department of Journalism Chair Harrison Hove.
Funding for Atrium comes from the Michael and Linda Connelly Fund for Narrative Nonfiction; the Harold A. (Hal) Herman Endowment Fund; and the Department of Journalism Magazine Fund.
cover by DELIA ROSE SAUER
ESSAYS
Rewinding the tape
Zarin Ismail
Curtain call
Bruna Arnaes
Losing him twice
Alexandra Burns
POETRY
cocktail hour
Vivienne Serret
Jack
Catalina Martinez-Wittinghan
Betty’s doll
Catalina Martinez-Wittinghan
FEATURES & SPECIAL PROJECTS
Florida fragrances
Atrium Staff
800 miles, no shoes
Nathan Thomas
A stinging reality
Jack Vincent
Old habits dine hard
Anna Edlund
The lowbar grind
Diego Perdomo
Fists of a fighter, heart of an angel
Lauren Brensel
Odds and ends
Layne Knox
Taste of island life
Ashley Rodriguez
Editor-in-Chief
Luena Rodriguez-Feo Vileira
Managing Editors
Lauren Brensel
Diego Perdomo
Multimedia Editor
Delia Rose Sauer
Assistant Design Editor
Jack Vincent
Copy Editor
Kylie Williams
Web Editor
Zarin Ismail
Marketing Director
Delaney Starling
Social Media Director
Anna Edlund
Layout Designers
Eva Lu
Noor Sukkar
Emily Moreno
Orionne Burbea
Camila Gutierrez
Illustrators
Sofia Zarran
Iesha Ismail
Photographers
Ella Thompson
Ashley Rodriguez
Advisers
Cindy Spence
Ted Spiker
Poetry Edtior
Natalie van Hoose
Founder Moni Basu
The theme we chose
introduction by LUENA RODRIGUEZ-FEO VILEIRA illustration by DELIA ROSE SAUER
IT WAS A QUESTION
of delirium as much as determination, riding the highs of sending our pages to print with little time to spare. It was a sort of surprised self-satisfaction, the kind that convinces you of your own capability, of possibility in itself.
“Let’s make a spring issue of Atrium,” we said, challenging ourselves to create during a previously untapped season, to outdo our previous issue.
Cocooned by loss last fall, we now called out to its hopeful companion: renewal.
Change was coming, and naively, we believed we could control its outcome completely.
From inside our chrysalis, we comfort ourselves with plans and predictions, with ideas of who we are and who we can ever be. A dreamer? A lover? A fighter?
When we timidly emerge from our silky outer casings, we don’t always like what we see.
But our renewal comes at the cost of — or as consolation for — our release.
This issue, we met renewal in process as much as in our stories of a new commitment to boxing, of a new life gained through a hundreds-mile trek, of a new wave of grief. Some began their journeys hoping to be reborn; others never expected to find new wings.
These transformations don’t beget a forgetting. In fact, they invoke our memories constantly. If you’re an avid reader of Atrium, you’ll reminisce in this issue and its nostalgically colored cover.
But we hope that you also find fresh meaning in these pages. We hope that from inside your own chrysalis — despite the unknown that awaits — you can savor the process of becoming new again.
design by JACK VINCENT
Rewinding the tape
Love seemed to be a facade, until I learned to embrace it
essay by ZARIN ISMAIL illustrations by IESHA ISMAIL and ZARIN ISMAIL
IN MY FAMILY HOME,
we never had photos displayed. No family photos, baby photos of my sister and me or wedding photos of my parents. Not a single picture could easily be found anywhere in the house.
Memorabilia were something meant to be stashed away, for they were more poignant reminders of the past than happy memories. It was a testament to what I thought life would be full of: regret.
That’s why it was a big deal when my mom visited her family in Bangladesh in 2022 and came home with a dusty VHS tape of her and my dad’s arranged wedding. For 30 years, my parents had never felt the need to bring a copy or keep one at our own house until now.
I saw the video once during a vacation to Bangladesh when I was 6 and didn’t think much of it, but this time, I was anxious. I was going to revisit the beginning of what would eventually lead to my existence, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to like it.
I sat on the couch in front of the TV as my mom inserted the cassette into a VHS player we had lying around in a closet.
“Film it on your phone if you want,” she said. “This is probably the last time you can see it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“The tape is old. If I play it even one more time, the player will probably destroy it.”
grazing over the buttons on the machine as she looked for the start button. I hesitantly pulled out my phone from my pocket and began recording as digitized letters displayed my mother’s and father’s names over a blue screen while a random part — not even the chorus — of “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley blasted through the speaker.
Pictures of my parents spun onto the screen with firework animations behind them. It was so early ’90s.
But then I saw my 19-year-old
mom’s face, a spitting image of my own, up close and washed with sorrow. Her big eyes — my big eyes — were puffy from crying. Her pointy eyebrows — my pointy eyebrows —
I was going to revisit the beginning of what would eventually lead to my existence, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to like it.
furrowed with resignation. Through the layers of white powder patted all over her face ran continuous streaks of tears, dissolving the makeup on her cheeks.
Back then, it was typical for weddings to happen at a relative’s house. In the middle of a small room, she sat on a bed with marigold garlands hanging behind her.
My mom, Shilpi, cowered every time she made eye contact with the camera, only for her aunt’s finger to push her chin up moments later. She was like a zoo
animal, a spectacle for her family and new in-laws.
Back in my living room 30 years later, my mom forced a laugh as she watched her younger self cry.
She is the oldest of three sisters and two brothers, born to an educated family in the city. Her mom was a school principal and her dad a banker.
While the family dearly valued schooling, the idea of a woman with an education but no husband did not suffice in 1990s Bangladesh. Status and security could
only supposedly be achieved with marriage, preferably one that happens when the woman is very young.
In the wedding video, my dad, the bright one of the family, grinned as he greeted his schoolmates and relatives. Everyone called him by his last name, Ismail. When pronounced correctly, it sounds a bit like the word “smile” — the same one he wore helping his parents and 10 siblings.
With good looks, an impressive ability to learn things quickly and a student visa to the United States,
Ismail was his family’s ticket out of the village and into the West. The only thing missing was his marriage.
The VHS player screeched faintly, and the video grew distorted as it neared the end — the moment my parents met for the first time.
As Ismail crossed the lavishly decorated room toward Shilpi, his smile faded away. He sat down next to her slowly, as if the bed would collapse if he moved any faster. Shilpi sat still, not acknowledging the stranger who was now her
The VHS player screeched faintly, and the video grew distorted as it neared the end — the moment my parents met for the first time.
husband. She was to lose her name and now be called Ismail’era bo, meaning “Ismail’s wife” in Bengali.
People were pushing them together, but it seemed like they couldn’t be further apart.
At that point, the tape was unplayable. All that was left was a blue screen. I stopped recording as I pressed my lips together, holding back tears. I had witnessed the beginning of my parents’ lifelong sadness.
My mom ejected the tape and inspected it front to back. She turned the spindles on the cassette and attempted to reel back what spilled from the bottom. After three failed attempts, she shrugged and turned off the TV.
“I don’t know now,” she said with a slight frown and a broken cassette in her hands.
My existence is a product of anything but love.
My mom and dad rarely smile when they’re together. They don’t greet each other in the mornings or when my dad comes home from work. A trivial remark from either of them develops into a fight. But it wasn’t always this way.
Until I turned 7, my parents used to call each other shona, which means “darling” in Bengali. I would tell my dad to kiss my mom on the cheek every morning before work — like the couples in the American TV shows I watched. They sometimes did it to make me laugh, but I realize now my parents’ affection for one another was a show as well. Their strained romantic relationship infiltrated even my platonic ones. The words “I love you” felt fake to me, even with friends.
When everyone said their goodbyes for the summer in seventh grade, kids hugged and giggled. All I could say
All that was left was a blue screen. I stopped recording as I pressed my lips together, holding back tears. I had witnessed the beginning of my parents’ lifelong sadness.
was, “Have a great summer!”
As my friend ran to her mom’s car, she yelled, “Love you, Zarin!”
It was the first time someone outside my family had said this to me. I awkwardly waved back and nodded, and she returned my gaze with furrowed eyebrows and her mouth agape.
“You’re not going to say it back?” she chuckled, her tone tinged with offense. Before I could respond, teachers in the student pickup area yelled for
the cars to keep moving forward. My friend drove away, and I played back that moment in my head over and over. Did I hurt her feelings? Why was it so hard for me to say “I love you” back? Do I not love my friends? I constantly worry my relationships will fall apart because of my discomfort with intimacy. I didn’t have much faith in the idea of receiving love, so how was I supposed to reciprocate it?
This was a complex waiting to ruin my life,
The love I was so disenchanted with had been with me for over a decade, just not professed through words.
And yet, when they saw me, they each broke into a genuine grin, smiles that soon erupted into a chorus of “Happy birthday, Zarin!” Their excitement, despite the terrible weather, made me realize I had friends to love who loved me all along.
The love I was so disenchanted with had been with me for over a decade, just not professed through words. Giggling on the phone for hours, making treats for one another, going on lunch dates nearly every week with people I have known as early as second grade — it all feels just as, if not more, gratifying than sappy words. Giving and receiving time we know we’ll never
looked unpromising, with its subject a distant young
But now I know life isn’t something you can stash away like an old wedding tape. To be lived, it has to be spent with other people. When I picture myself growing
the next time you’re free?” is my “I love you.”
And I hope that will do. I hope they know that, even though it’s hard for me to say those three words, I feel them all the time.
design by NOOR SUKKAR
Curtain call
Without dance, who was I? Improvisation showed me.
essay by BRUNA ARNAES illustrations by NOOR SUKKAR
THE LIGHTS TURN OFF,
letting unrestrained darkness dominate the room. In seconds, it replaces every element that brought energy and agitation to the once-vivid auditorium. The blinding spotlight, floating specks of costume glitter and blasting classical music are all gone.
My eyes struggle to adjust to the abrupt change. All I can do is feel, slowly surrendering to every sensation my performer brain had previously ignored.
I feel the sharp ends of the 35 bobby pins holding my bun scratch against my scalp. I feel the thick layer of foundation covering my face holding my smile in place. I feel the iron bars of my corset compress my ribs, preventing them from fully expanding for a deep inhale.
My legs itch from the tights. My feet throb in pain, probably from another broken nail. I try to spread my toes, sweaty and squished together, but it’s no use. They’re glued to the silicone protection I wear beneath my pointe shoes. I am physically paralyzed — frozen in time. Though the choreography
is complete, and the music has stopped, my performance isn’t over. Something is missing. I try to see through the barrier between me and the audience, the darkness interrupting our two-way communication. I have delivered my message, but I need a response. A reaction. An answer. Anything.
I can’t stop my heart from pounding in my chest. It isn’t from physical exhaustion — I have been trained to execute the one-minute-long solo without struggle — but fear. Uncertainty pulses through me in short breaths and shaking hands.
What if they didn’t like my performance? What if I just wasn’t good enough?
Nevermind.
The lights turn back on, and I see the audience rise to their feet, one by one. Then comes the sound. The one I know so well.
The applause grows exponentially, permeating the auditorium as I feel the spotlight shine on me again. Every dark corner is illuminated, every vacant aisle filled with noise, every doubt in my mind put at ease. Approval. The crowd is telling me I succeeded, and I internalize it.
The lights turn back on, and I see the audience rise to their feet, one by one. Then comes the sound.
I step to center stage and curtsy. My lips crack into a smile, a sign of relief
first, then happiness. I started dancing at 7. Since then, I have evaluated myself — not only as a dancer but as a person
For about a decade, dancing had been my passion and performing my expertise — but neither show could last forever.
— according to external judgments. I was never talented enough, smart enough, cool enough or pretty enough until one of my dance instructors, school teachers, relatives or friends said so.
I looked in the mirror, searching for a reflection I couldn’t find. Unable to see myself through my own eyes, I did it through theirs.
Each day after rehearsals ended and the other dancers had left the studio, I stayed to practice my skills by myself. One evening, I decided to use the time to exclusively practice pirouettes. I’d just been called out for missing my landing in class, and I couldn’t let it happen again.
Forty-five minutes of countless repetitions passed in the studio until, finally, I landed it: my first ever triple pirouette. It was fast, sharp and precise — the “perfect” pirouette.
I ran to the lobby, looking for the instructor
who had corrected me earlier, begging her to give me another chance. We returned to the studio, where she awaited the perfection I had promised.
I spun once. I spun twice. I spun three times. But as I attempted to land the pirouette by transitioning my right foot from passé to fourth position plié, it slipped back into a split.
Suddenly, I found myself on the floor watching my instructor’s face flood with disappointment. Silent, she faked a smile before walking away.
I stayed there on the floor, feeling my genuine smile fade from my face.
Even when I wasn’t dancing, I internalized outside judgments and hid the traits I thought would scare away the applause. In school, I often found myself masking my emotions — an encore of the performance that became my life.
In seventh grade, I lost one of my best friends to a
brain tumor surgery. I was in my room doing homework when I got the text saying she had passed away. Shortly after skimming the first couple sentences, I ran to the living room looking for my mom. I laid on her lap and cried myself to sleep.
The morning after, I wiped away any trace of my tears, covering my cheeks and my sadness with makeup. When it became nearly impossible to see through the mask I had constructed, I was ready for school. I decided to never express my pain again.
Months later, my friends and I went to the movie theater to see “Five Feet Apart.” Watching an onscreen depiction of death due to cancer ignited my internal suffering. Suddenly, the scar I had avoided touching for so long was wide open again, announcing itself unwillingly as tears ran down my cheeks. I felt
the flames of months of suppressed grief all at once, and it burned.
It didn’t take long for me to notice my friends’ clueless expressions. For the first time, my mask had fallen, and my friends closely examined the stranger that had taken my seat.
I was a rare species observed by intrigued zoo visitors. No one attempted contact or intervention; they watched carefully from a distance, cautious of any unpredictable movement.
Unwilling to serve as their entertainment, I ran to the bathroom. My friends never directly asked me about it, and I never gave the explanations requested by their stares.
For about a decade, dancing had been my passion and performing my expertise — but neither show could last forever.
At 14, I was sitting next to my mom at the orthopedic office. Years of dance had weighed heavily not just on my mind but my body, resulting in a lumbar disc protrusion and eventually, surgery.
My mom and I had talked this over before walking into the room,
What had been my life for so long became a piece of my past in seconds.
and I had sworn to respect whatever recovery instructions the doctor recommended. But at this moment, I was starting to reconsider my promise. I knew what he might say — that I could never dance again — but I didn’t know if I could take it.
My eyes followed the doctor as he rose from his spotless white chair with a certain difficulty and made his way to the opposite side of the room, steps dragging. I studied his face as he turned the viewer lights on and placed the MRI against it.
He inspected the image of my lower back. Time slowed.
Was that a twitch in his brow? A deeper inhale? A second of hesitation?
He turned around, his eyes searching for mine. When our gazes met, no words were needed. I could sense his apology brewing. There was the doctor’s answer. It was over.
What had been my life for so long
became a piece of my past in seconds.
My thoughts, racing just moments earlier, slowed to a stop. I felt salty tears brimming in my eyes, then streaming down my cheeks — water that seemed to wash my identity away.
Sitting on that cold, hard chair, I closed my eyes and, for the last time, tried to visualize myself on stage. There I was, standing in the darkness again.
My eyes tried to adjust to the lack of light, and my breaths tried to slow their quickened pace. I could feel the cold breeze from the strong air conditioner of the auditorium drying the sweat off my face.
My heart pounded against my chest. My ears pricked up for the audience’s response.
I waited for a sound, a reaction, an answer. Nothing came.
design by DIEGO PERDOMO
cocktail hour
there were mornings when i’d wake up and the weight of my own skin felt too heavy. when the air in my lungs didn’t fill me — it suffocated.
there were days when my mind scattered like broken glass on the floor.
no matter how good a job i did sweeping it away, shards would hide in the shadow, waiting for me to step on them, and bleed out.
i remember when i was five years old, i’d cry at the thought of the color purple and couldn’t use the bathroom without inspecting the corners of the sink at least three hundred and fifty-one times.
left, right left, right left, right left.
my mother insisted there was nothing wrong with me. but mommy, if i didn’t fidget with the lightswitch once or three times, three times, three times, or five times, or seven times,
or nine times, or eleven times, or thirteen,
you could’ve died.
i showered with scorching hot water yet never felt clean. i deluded myself into thinking daddy long legs and german roaches crawled on my skin.
mom, it’s in my veins. there’s a spider,
i know i felt them crawling on me i know i felt them crawling on me mommy, i can’t sleep without barricading my door. i swear i’d hear knocking on my window.
i think there’s someone at the door mama, wake up, he’s climbing up a ladder. mama, wake up.
when i was 17 i read the yellow wallpaper. i thought how much i hated that beige curtain in my living room with those disgusting purple accents.
mom took me to a doctor. and yes, the doctor told me i was odd like the numbers in my head that felt right.
but she said we could fix it with a walk. and so i tried to walk, but the watch reminded me i’d gone two miles.
it can’t be two,
poem and illustration by VIVIENNE
SERRET
it must be three, or five or seven. i walked so much the sun kissed the moon. but my head felt more exhausted than these fragile legs.
all i wanted was to be told everyone was like this. but odd i was. and people like me couldn’t just walk, or eat more fiber. i needed milligrams and patience.
it’s still hard to admit zoloft is the lifeline when my heart gives out.
and again and again.
being ill in the head used to be the hardest pill to swallow.
but now
no one’s knocking on the door, no daddy long legs crawl on my skin the beige curtain and its purple accents is just a curtain.
i’ll take this cocktail if it means letting go of the fear that once made me forget how to live.
i’ll take a handful of abilify if it means finally sleeping and not being scared in my own bed
and so it becomes: one in the morning, one in the evening, one at night.
i’ll take it again
design by ISABELLA MORALES
What does Florida smell like?
Is it a golden beach day? A swampy forest? These are the questions we posed to our staff and readers in search of the scents most symbolic of our state. “If you can smell the rain, you’re from Florida,” one writer said. Get a whiff of what our other respondents said in our collection of Florida’s fragrances.
petrichor
“the smell of rain”
Jack
Palmetto-Leaves by Harriet Beecher Stowe entails her journey as she travels by boat to visit Florida. She first lands in Savannah, Georgia, and then takes a train to Jacksonville, Florida, where she proceeds to travel visiting the St. Johns River, St. Augustine and more. She travels after the Civil War, exploring Florida’s nature and publishing her travel guide in 1873. At the beginning of her journey, she encounters a wild dog that joins the ship of people traveling to Florida.
It’s an overcast morning, leaving shore as he stumbles onto a cage of bones, carrying nomadic weightlessness.
He feels the “smooth, slippery, cheating, ground swell” underneath as the world begins rocking, proving his imbalance.
A circus of smells pulls him in every direction and he cannot seem to find footing among stonewalling strangers.
His tail wags and his sloppy smile seems endearing until the look in his eye is just a heartbroken romanticization of the life he doesn’t have.
He desperately holds onto the splinter of kindness — a young smile wrapped in pink chiffon — in the deck of dehumanized emotions: “Tick, tick, pitapat, go the four little paws after her.”
But under a sky like trenchant, torn-up cushions, her sympathy fades and he’s left to no one. She forgets her awe, leaving a lump of “rough, dusty hair, full of sticks and straws” behind for the crowd to kick and heckle and cast out.
And when their footing becomes once again solid, his loyalty stands alone as he is marooned over nameless soil and never knows what it’s like to be called hers.
Betty’s Doll
designs
800 miles, no shoes
After two days wading through knee-high mud, Rogelio Fernandez watched his Timberland boots disintegrate. With waterlogged pants and bare feet punctured by thorns, he pushed forward, knowing he couldn’t turn back.
He had just embarked on the most dangerous leg of his journey to the United States, across the roadless land bridge connecting North and South America, a 60-mile trek through thick tropical rainforest and landslide-prone terrain.
He was crossing the Darién Gap. Robbers, drug smugglers, panthers, snakes and the jungle itself form a crucible for migrants seeking a better life in the U.S. Over 170 people died trying to cross the gap in 2024.
Now, as Rogelio rebuilds his life in Jacksonville, Florida, as a business owner working in air conditioning and heating repair, he still carries his story of arrival — one of strength, will and the unyielding desire to live free.
Leaving Cuba
Rogelio first tried to escape Cuba in 2012, applying for tourist visas to Uruguay, Mexico and the Dominican Republic. He was rejected each time, until 2017, when he secured a visa to visit French Guiana, a region in South America.
After saving money sent from relatives in the U.S. and selling all of his property, he compiled a bag with the items he imagined he would need to make the voyage: clothes, non-perishable food, a thousand American dollars, his sturdy Timberland hiking boots
One migrant’s journey to freedom story by NATHAN THOMAS photos by ANNA EDLUND
Rogelio Fernandez, walking on the job, is the owner of his own AC and heating repair business in Jacksonville, Fla., February 2025. (Courtesy of Rogelio Fernandez)
design by JACK VINCENT
Through rain, thorns and armed men, Rogelio trudged barefoot for hundreds of miles. His
only guide?
The desperate hope for something better.
and a carne asada, a taste of home.
He managed to convince his cousin Elaine to join him. They boarded a plane to Guiana with no plan.
In a town with bright orange and yellow high-rises and street vendors, Rogelio ran into a friend from Cuba who was buying clothes to sell back home.
“He told me that at the motel where he was staying, there was someone dedicated to organizing crossings into Venezuela,” Rogelio said.
Smugglers, Scams and South America
After securing his passage, Rogelio was taken to a makeshift camp by the Cuyuni River, which forms the natural border between Venezuela and Guyana.
“We left at night and were on the water for 24, almost 25 hours,” he said.
They traveled in a long, shallow boat — what Cubans call a “cigarette boat” — close to the water with four motors in the back.
“We were practically flying, bouncing off the water,” Rogelio said.
The journey was one of constant unease — fear hung thick in the air as Rogelio and over 20 other migrants crammed together, shoulder to shoulder, each praying they’d make it across undetected.
The smugglers, meanwhile, spoke a jumble of French and English that Rogelio couldn’t understand. He strained to catch any shift in their tone, trying to read the situation by instinct.
“From listening so much — the preoccupation, the stress — when
we finally got to Venezuela, and people started speaking Spanish to me, I didn’t understand them for an hour,” Rogelio recalled.
Once they arrived in Venezuela, Rogelio’s smugglers took him to a rundown motel where they exchanged his American dollars for Venezuelan bolívars. They warned him it would be impossible to buy anything with dollars in the country.
“Pretty soon, I realized it was a scam,” Rogelio said. “The bolívars are worth less than nothing.”
Still, he couldn’t help but laugh when he saw locals paying for their meals with stacks of bills feet high.
Soon enough, the smugglers informed him of the next step: They would sneak his group into Colombia.
“If they stopped us on the way, we were supposed to say that we were doctors, on a mission in Venezuela,” Rogelio said. He couldn’t help but picture himself — weary and unshaven — standing there, trying to pass for a doctor.
His drivers, noting his appearance, insisted that he lose his beard. “You’ll look more credible,” they said, sure that a clean shave was the key to convincing the border guards.
Finally, he arrived at a small village, the last stop before the jungle he would have to cross on foot. They took a small canoe to a sandy bank in the jungle, where a cove, a dock and a ranchón — a wooden structure with a roof made of leaves and branches — awaited them.
To Rogelio, the scene looked like a movie in Hawaii.
It was beautiful, he thought. But the peace didn’t last. Two teenagers appeared out of the shadows, one with a pistol at his belt and the other with a rifle slung over his shoulder. They introduced themselves as the guides who would take them through the Darién Gap, their demeanor disturbingly calm. They said they were going to pick up another group to join them. Rogelio and Elaine were to wait at the hut until the guides returned. Each passing hour charged Rogelio and Elaine with nerves, like toys wound too far. One day dragged by. Then two.
The trio’s food supply consisted of cans of tuna and sugar. Rogelio and Elaine stopped to eat once a day, downing the extra oil from the tuna cans for some extra fat and energy, trying to push the hunger out of their minds.
It didn’t help that Rogelio’s clothes were becoming a burden.
He cut his pants, made of a heavy material, into shorts, hoping to relieve some weight. At night, he used the pant legs as a blanket, wrapping himself in the fabric to shield against the constant dripping water. Sleep came in fragments, interrupted by the howling rain and the constant, gnawing ache in his muscles.
On the third day, they ran into a group of Colombian drug smugglers. Each was armed with a long rifle.
Rogelio had heard stories of how men like these assaulted people. Instead, these men told him his group was lost and pointed them in the right direction.
“Look for a hill, turn, and try to cross once you get there,” the men said.
Rogelio has an album where he catalogs pictures he took while on his journey from Cuba to the United States. He points to a picture of the Guatemalan border. (Anna Edlund/Atrium Magazine)
Grateful and relieved, Rogelio’s group trekked onward. The terrain began to shift as they hiked upward, convinced they had found the landmark. They pushed on for another seven hours.
On the descent, Rogelio, exhausted and in tremendous pain, thought he had stepped into another dimension when his senses picked up something completely foreign to the jungle.
Spaghetti.
The group slid down the hill, feet slipping on muddy ground, until they reached a group of Haitian men cooking spaghetti over a gas burner in the middle of the Darién Gap.
After three days of nothing but canned tuna fish and raw sugar for dessert, the promise of a hot meal made them delirious.
“It was the best restaurant I’ve ever been to in my life,” Rogelio said.
After the meal, they called it a day and went to bed. But it wasn’t long before they awoke to the sound of rushing water.
The river, previously calm, was growing by the second. Rogelio watched the water rush toward them, three meters, then two meters, then one meter away, until the group ran back up the hill they had come down.
They spent the night walking and crossed the river at daybreak. For the next two days, they slogged through marshy flatland, their bodies heavy with fatigue, their feet a bloody mess. On the seventh day, they ran into the Panamanian military.
Elaine saw the body first.
The officer in charge told them to head to a camp in Lajas Blancas, where they would be vaccinated for any diseases they might have picked up in the jungle.
It was an older man, mid-40s, who had fallen over on the road. His skin was already yellow.
“It looked like he had been dead for about three days,” Rogelio said. “And by the clothes he was wearing, we could tell he was Cuban.”
This man had walked the same brutal path Rogelio’s group
Over 170 people died trying to cross the gap in 2024.
Rogelio gets some fresh air on top of his hotel in French Guiana in June 2016. (Courtesy of Rogelio Fernandez)
phone chips and supplies.
Rogelio spent the extra money on new shoes, a pair he remembers vividly — blue and green with white stripes.
With a working phone, he called his family in the U.S. He was alive. He had made it to Nicaragua.
His family sent him some cash for the rest of the journey. It was enough for him and Elaine to purchase a pair of red bicycles.
At the next police checkpoint, they simply pedaled through, blending in with the locals.
Once safely past, they found a bus to take them to the Nicaraguan border with Honduras, where they were granted passage on the same bus to Guatemala. There, Rogelio reunited with an old friend, one who knew a taxi driver who could drive them the length of the country.
By taxi, he and Elaine reached the Suchiate River, the border between Guatemala and Mexico. To cross, they climbed onto makeshift barges, nothing more than tires lashed together with wood.
Just 50 meters away, the Mexican police watched from a bridge. They didn’t move as Rogelio and Elaine floated across.
The pair walked to a nearby town called Tapachula, where an entire underground economy thrives on the needs of migrants.
People whispered about fixers who could secretly acquire anything — SIM cards, safe houses, even cars for the right price. It was here
For the next 800 miles, until he crossed into Nicaragua, he traveled barefoot.
that Rogelio and Elaine found someone willing to drive them north, to the edge of cartel territory.
For hours, they drove. Hours stretched into days. They passed the time talking, until the course of their journey changed with a single word.
“I let it slip,” Rogelio said. “Just one word in casual conversation: ‘Cubano.’”
The driver stiffened. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The silence grew heavy. Suffocating.
Something was wrong.
The driver of the car finally spoke. “Cubans are like racehorses here.”
To kidnappers in Mexico, Cubans are attractive targets. They believe most Cubans making the trip north already have family in the U.S. supporting them. The opportunity to extort wealthier American families is often
too good to pass up.
Sure enough, the driver delivered them not to safety but to a house where they were held hostage.
They were held for three days, the kidnappers demanding $2,500 apiece from their families. If they didn’t pay, they threatened to send a finger, then a hand.
On the third day, Elaine broke.
“Where am I? Who are you?
Rogelio tells the story of his trek across South and Central America in Jacksonville, Fla., Tuesday, Feb. 18th, 2025. (Anna Edlund/Atrium Magazine)
What am I doing here?” she asked Rogelio. He had never been more terrified.
“At that point, I was thinking that the best thing that could happen at that moment was that the police would come and deport us to Cuba,”
Rogelio said. “I’d rather live in Cuba than die in Mexico.”
Their families, meanwhile, scrambled. They sold jewelry and took out predatory payday loans, scraping together whatever they had.
They couldn’t reach $5,000. But they got to $2,400.
It was enough. The kidnappers took the money and dumped Rogelio and Elaine at the edge of cartel territory.
The Border
The two boarded the last bus of their journey with a plan. The bus would take them close to the U.S border, but they wouldn’t risk staying on too long. A few miles before the crossing, they would get off and walk the rest of the way, avoiding any immigration checkpoints that could send them back.
The hours stretched on, the landscape rolling by in a blur of desert and dust. They kept their heads down, avoiding attention, even when someone came
"I’d rather live in Cuba than die in Mexico."
by to offer them snacks.
When they thought the time was right, Rogelio and Elaine rose from their seats and made their way to the front of the bus, adrenaline pumping once again. Rogelio leaned towards the driver and made his request:
“We need to get off here.”
He pleaded their case to the driver, who looked at them blankly before cracking a smile.
“We crossed into the United States a few miles ago,” the driver said.
Rogelio’s breath caught in his chest.
“I couldn’t believe it. It was so
much work to get there and we got in almost by mistake,” he said.
At the bus station, he and Elaine found a border patrol officer and surrendered. They pleaded for asylum.
The United States granted it.
From there, it was just one more journey — but this time, in the safety of the U.S.
Rogelio’s family was waiting for him when he arrived in Miami. After nearly two months of constant peril, of running, hiding and barely holding on, he could finally breathe.
design by JACK VINCENT
RAInside a Florida Beekeeper’s apiary
eady to see some bees?” Chris Vasquez, the owner of Heritage Bee Farm, asked. In the heart of Myakka City, surrounded by rolling hay bales and green pastures, sits Heritage Bee Farm. What began as a simple hobby for Vasquez erupted into a blooming business.
RealitY
photo story and illustrations by
JACK VINCENT
Chris Vasquez stands with a colony at Heritage Bee Farm in Myakka City, Fla., Tuesday, February 11, 2025. A bee colony is ruled by a queen. Instead of Vasquez being the king to the monarch, he is a knight who fights for the bees and battles Mother Nature’s threats to serve the long reign of the kingdom.
(Jack Vincent/Atrium Magazine)
Facing challenges is part of the job. When met with the destruction of one-third of his colonies after Hurricane Ian, Vasquez did not flee. “One day you have it, the next day you don’t,” he said. “It’s those kinds of things that make you think, ‘Are we in the right business?’” He faces the challenges with an iron fist, allowing him to taste the benefits of his reward. Taste is one of the beauties of the job. (Jack Vincent/Atrium Magazine)
Heritage directly manages colonies spread out over three different counties: Sarasota, Manatee and DeSoto.
Vasquez not only has 2,500 colonies of bees but also a colony of his own. With nine children and three grandchildren, the farm has a well-managed team.
“We’re a family business,” Vasquez said. Everyone has a little hand in the honey pot. His sons manage the farm, located about 30 miles from the hot summer beaches of Sarasota,
Vasquez extracts honeycombs from the hive to check the health and harvest the honey. When ready to harvest, hives are taken out of the apiary, and their wax capping is either scraped off manually or put through a machine. Then, a centrifuge extracts the honey from the comb. (Jack Vincent/Atrium Magazine)
and one of his daughters manages the farm’s sales.
Rows of hives, with living and thriving colonies, are stacked at the farm where the matriarchal society forages on all the wildflowers that nature has provided. It’s a harmonious site with black and orange stripes across the landscape. The subtle hum and sweet lullaby of a songbird choir are all composed by the sweet nectar of the wild.
“We like to think that bees make honey for us, but they make it and store it for themselves,” Vasquez said.
Bees strike when threatened, stinging a target in sight. To combat their attacks, beekeepers at Heritage will use smokers to calm the bees’ nerves. The smoke does not harm the striking soldiers and is a natural way to ensure keepers’ safety. There are both chemical and organic
skin to be a beekeeper,” Vasquez said.
Vasquez observes the state of the honeycomb and ensures that everything is in good health. “If there’s a problem with the queen, it’s really not very long until that colony is really taking a downward turn,” Vasquez said. “If they don’t have a queen, the colony is just not going to make it. So, it’s important that she stays very productive.” (Jack Vincent/Atrium Magazine)
design by NOOR SUKKAR
Old Habits Dine Hard
For many, it’s just a meal. For restaurant regulars, it’s so much more.
story
by ANNA EDLUND illustrations by DELIA ROSE SAUER
Through the clicking of tickets printing and sizzling of onions cooking, a crisp ring ring ring cuts through the air. To soothe the shrieking melody, I cut across the kitchen, tagging close behind the worker who’s been tasked with training me.
As my nonslip shoes clunk across the kitchen tile, I anxiously recall the script that’s been drilled into me: Give the customer our standard greeting, ask their name and record their steak temperatures.
for the phone confidently, my fingertips brushing the smooth surface of the handset, when —
“Wait!”
My trainer’s hand wraps around my wrist in protest as I spin around, searching her face for an explanation. Her eyes dart to the name glowing on the computer screen, indicating the customer waiting on the phone. My trainer returns my stare and hesitates, fighting to find the right words.
I was about to meet my first regular.
Over the following
through to the kitchen.
If it’s not me, it’s another employee answering her call — a daily occurrence. Her printed order ticket brings a sigh from the cooks before they begin crafting it from muscle memory.
A thick piece of salmon, unseasoned and only lightly cooked. A chicken breast, equally unseasoned and lightly grilled. Two round sweet potatoes served plain. Each food item placed in its own box and accompanied with an abundance of plastic silverware packets.
“What an odd order,” I think to myself as I stack and bag the warm
window of her boyfriend’s car when he arrives to pick it up. “Who could eat the same meal every single day?”
“Right on schedule,” I chuckle to my coworkers the next day when her name lights up on our computer screen again. I pester my coworkers about this mysterious character, desperate for more information.
“I’ve been there two and a half years now, she’s been there long before me,” my coworker explains. “She used to eat inside, but once we remodeled, she swore she could still smell paint and
"What an odd order," I think to myself.
I see the woman behind the call.
has since been eating to-go.”
My curiosity leads me to the workers who met her face-to-face in the dining room two years prior.
“She was very nice but liked to talk a lot about very depressing things,” her former server tells me.
“The usual?” I ask her during another shift, my fingers fidgeting impatiently with the coils of the telephone cord. The sun lowering in the distance shines a soft light through the window behind me, illuminating barren shelves that normally overflow with scalding takeout orders.
The unusual silence in the restaurant lets me hear the faint cracks in her voice and the timid tone that carries her requests. A sort of sadness, almost loneliness, wafts through the phone speaker as she recites her phone number for our rewards system. I gently promise her there will be no seasoning on her chicken. Her speech quivers as she thanks me for all the restaurant does for her.
My heart softens as I click the handset back into place, ending the call. Suddenly, I no longer just see the order for its intricate modifications. I see the woman behind the call.
This restaurant is my college job, nothing more than my means to a paycheck. But to this woman, this restaurant is a key part of her day, her source of a meal that brings not just consistency but comfort. Her gratitude over the phone melts my original
judgment, letting pure curiosity seep in as I wonder how important a chain restaurant can truly be to its regulars.
I contacted this woman, but she did not wish to be interviewed.
With my curiosity lingering still, I turned to research.
I consulted registered dietitian Debbie Petitpain, who said a variety of factors could explain why my regular eats the same meal every day. Taste. Convenience. Price. Accessibility. Nutrition. An underlying medical condition may inspire a specific diet — but so might a desire for routine, control or comfort.
“We are very much creatures of habit,” Petitpain said.
And if that daily habit was a well-balanced meal? “That could actually be great,” Petitpain said.
In many cultures, eating the same thing over and over is perfectly normal, she added.
I slowly realized that regulars were more common and more understandable than I expected.
“I have one lady who comes twice a day for triple shot espresso, six butter pecan, three cream, every day,” my friend, a barista from a coffee shop in Valrico, tells me.
“We have this one weird regular who comes in every day and stays
“This is a regular.”
for like seven hours in the dining room, and he gets a shit ton of oregano on everything he orders,” my roommate, a Gainesville pizzeria employee, says to me.
Regulars can also be who you least expect, as I discovered while conversing with Mike Foley, a professor at the University of Florida. He’s been ordering from a local restaurant almost daily for years, keeping his routine simple: Get there a little before 5 p.m., leave by 7 p.m. and drink no more than two beers.
The restaurant staff pours his drink as soon as he walks in.
“I don’t have to order or anything,” Foley said. They know exactly what he wants.
He doesn’t mind overlooking the restaurant’s occasionally cold temperature for the rest of his experience inside — moments beyond just pizza and beer.
“It’s a socialization process,” he explained. “I’m comfortable with the people there, I’m comfortable with the surroundings.”
His frequent visits have brought him closer to the staff that serve him daily.
“I’ve written letters of recommendation for five of the bartenders,” Foley confessed with a chuckle.
“I don’t say that you should hire this person or have this person in your program because they pour a good beer,” he said. “I know their personality.”
It didn’t take long for them to know him, too, thanks to his and his
wife’s habit of buying takeout from the restaurant during the pandemic.
“They would recognize our voice on the phone when we called our order in,” he said.
During a recent shift, I purposefully took a little more time on each ticket, pausing on each entrée and appetizer listed on the colorful screen.
“Here is where it lists the customer’s name,” I point out, my finger extending toward the group of pixels. I have an audience.
My trainee nods in agreement, eyes wide and eager as she takes in the new environment.
I spin to face the large stack of paper takeaway bags that sit parallel to the kitchen counters. I extend my hand to grab the top bag, ready to gently unfold it and demonstrate how to pack an order, when a familiar sound interrupts the usual buzz of ice machines and fryer timers.
My steps align with each shrill chime of the phone as I make my way across the kitchen. The squeaks of brand-new non-slip shoes follow me like a bell on a cat as the trainee scrambles to keep up with my stride.
I immediately recognize the name that lights up the computer screen. This sight might be frustrating to some, but I feel only amusement. I observe the uncertain expression of the young woman I met an hour ago, and my lips curl into a smile.
“This is a regular.”
down a rail during a
event outside of
in Gainesville, Fla., Saturday, Feb. 15, 2025. The event, which invited several pop-ups for bike shops, jewelry shops and other businesses, invited visitors of all ages to a joint skate session. (Diego Perdomo/ Atrium Magazine)
Ryan Barlow nosegrinds
skate clinic
Sunshine Records
When Ryan Barlow was a teenager, he would have done anything to skate. Who cared about politeness when he was asking for a ride to the skate park? Who cared about the cost of skate trips and gear? Who cared about his friendships? If he wanted to skate, he was going to.
“Anything that would stand in the way of that never really mattered,” Barlow said.
Nearly two decades later, the same
skate friends who teased him for “setting the bar low” watch the boy they once dubbed “shithead” with a knowing smirk, as Barlow refines his ambitions in a new pursuit: coffee.
Born and raised in Gainesville, Barlow, 33, sought his dreams of barreling down hills and coasting through streets during a 10-year stint in San Francisco. Between tech startup jobs and side hustling with a local bike refurbishing company, he discovered a love of being a barista, allowing him to interact more with people who value creativity.
After tiring of California rent
At Resident Coffee Roasters, unroasted coffee beans shine green in plastic pails. Barlow, who works as a packager and roaster at the roastery, keeps a watchful eye to make sure roasted beans are the same color. (Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
design by DELIA ROSE SAUER
prices, Barlow moved back home. Noting the skate-friendly infrastructure he left behind and a new food scene in Gainesville, Barlow melded his two passions and created lowbar, a pop-up aiming to promote specialty coffee and skateboarding culture.
The business gives Barlow the outlet to contribute to the lively skate community he always looked for growing up.
The DIY spirit of skating persists in Barlow’s product branding and a fully modular storefront that stacks onto his 1990 Honda microvan.
Heralding lowbar as “Gainesville’s mobile coffee bar,” Barlow creates a consistent local presence. “The more regular we are, the more we create regulars,” he said. (Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
With the portable storefront, lowbar sets up shop three days a week.
In a storage unit next to the popup, customers and friends skate on homemade ramps of Barlow’s own design. With nearly 300 hours of work, help from other Gainesville skaters and a variety of purchased, donated and discounted plywood, he was the lead designer of the ramps and modular storefront. When they’re not at the pop-ups, the ramps appear at community skate events, night markets and music festivals.
With aims to make custom ramps for other events, Barlow creates a job he loves instead of pursuing a job he could easily get with his experience across the tech and coffee industries.
Gainesville’s healthy business culture and skateboarding environment fuel his big ambitions. He believes Gainesville could one day be the next San Francisco.
“That’s really the whole reason why I do this,” Barlow said. “I wanna have friends help and hopefully employ skaters and other baristas
one day. [Custom ramps are] the drive for it: Put skateboarding on the map for Gainesville.”
Creating partnerships with local business owners and larger brands like Converse, Barlow seeks to partner with national skaters and local governments to support friendlier skate infrastructure.
“My community is skateboarding, no matter what I do, that’s something that I can’t hide,“ he said.
Barlow fastens screws after they loosened from hours of grinding outside Sunshine Records in Gainesville, Fla., Saturday, Feb. 15, 2025. The platforms, like the rest of the skatepark, were designed and built by many local skaters.
(Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
Barlow crafts a drink for his friend and customer Jordan Hembree, 27, during a pop-up event for his coffee company outside Sunshine Records in Gainesville, Fla., Saturday, Feb. 8, 2025. (Diego Perdomo/ Atrium Magazine)
Barlow takes a skate break during his pop-up event in Gainesville, Fla., Saturday, Feb. 8, 2025. Coupling his passion for skating with coffee, he strives to develop greater local skate infrastructure through community events and portable ramps. (Diego Perdomo/ Atrium Magazine)
A bare-knuckle boxer trains for her next match
story by LAUREN BRENSEL
photos by DIEGO PERDOMO
design by ZARIN ISMAIL
Angel Keihl hops back and forth, shifting her weight across a padded mat in the mixed martial arts studio where she trains. Behind gloved fists, the 35-year-old hides her face, which has taken a few beatings over the years. Her brown eyes twinkle today, but they’ve been, at times, bulbed and blue and swollen shut.
That’s standard for an MMA fighter, though. And for a new professional in the sport of bareknuckle boxing, sustaining injuries isn’t just a possibility. It’s predetermined. Angel continues jumping forward, twisting her body halfway around each time she lands, blowing sharp, brief breaths through her teeth. The exercise will help her float like a butterfly. What she needs to learn is how to sting like a bee.
One of Angel’s biggest struggles as a fighter is balancing an entertaining bout with a quality one. The challenge is something she and her coach, George Panagiotakos, are embracing as Angel trains to fight her next opponent, Miranda Kay Barber.
Miranda goes by SheHulk. She throws a precise punch. And she’s previously fought Angel. The two faced off a decade ago in Tampa, and Angel, who goes by DaKilla, gave her a bloody nose.
“You kept going?” George asks his student, wondering if Angel knocked out her opponent.
Not exactly.
At first, Miranda fought back against Angel’s body weight and quicker punches, even managing to once anchor Angel to the ground.
But by the third round, Miranda took several knees to the abdomen and a series of uppercuts. And despite her pinning Angel against the cage’s black metal gate, it was Miranda’s body that briefly collapsed.
“Keep fighting,” Angel told her opponent. “Don’t stop.”
“Don’t say that,” George now tells Angel flatly and with a pat on the back.
It’s rare for 53-year-old George’s feedback to fly so bluntly — negatively — during practice. He’s established a strong rapport with Angel, even though they only began training together a few months ago. His critiques are always uplifting, and Angel says he’s previously even suggested she train at other gyms to challenge her more. But if George has one nonnegotiable, it’s this: No encouraging the opponent in the ring. Not when Angel is now boxing as a pro.
As a viewer, Angel can’t stand watching rounds that have the “lovey-dovey shit” — the hugs and high-fives exchanged between fighters after a solid punch. But when she’s in the ring, her fighting instincts don’t
always align with her heart.
“It’s hard not to have mercy on someone,” she says, “if they need it.”
Angel knows that better than anyone. And, from her decade of fighting, she has the stitches to prove it. But what hurts the fighter most isn’t the eye poke that cost Angel her vision for six months. And it’s not the pain sustained from the ligaments and tendons she’s torn, then healed, then torn again.
What scars Angel the most are the profound wounds, cut deep below the surface yet worn candidly on her sleeve. There’s the difficult, decades-long relationship with her father, bound together by the string of the sport. There’s the addiction he passed on to her that she’s long since relied on — though even after a decade without binge-drinking alcohol, the compulsivity still has to go somewhere, and Angel puts it into her demanding training.
And there’s the training, an emotional seesaw. She improves by staying active, but that time is then spent without friends and family. She fuels her fight by being with friends and family, but that time is then spent sitting idle. Angel is constantly asking herself: Is all this worth it?
Her answer in August was yes. That was when she battled in her first match as a professional MMA fighter. It was a bare-knuckle fight and she won. Now, she’ll continue to compete in at least one more match this year with the fighting promoter that signed her. George says Angel can kiss jiu-jitsu and taekwondo and every other MMA sport she
“It’s hard not to have mercy on someone if they need it.”
previously competed in goodbye. She’s now a bare-knuckle boxer.
Bare-knuckle has an extensive history, cropping up in bouts among the ancient Greeks and an 18thcentury enslaved person who earned his freedom by winning a match. But despite being an underground hit for centuries, the sport was never legalized until 2018, when Wyoming held the first organized rumble. Now, about half of the country allows regulated bareknuckle. In the sport, fighters may only punch with a clenched, ungloved fist above the waist. To preserve boxers’ safety, the sport bans kicks, headlocks and outstretched fingers.
Angel says most female competitors don’t book a second match because cosmetic surgeries for gruesome injuries can get expensive. And most boxers in the sport, even the pros like Angel, don’t make much money. For her fight in August, she said she walked away with $2,000. But athletes who sign with prominent promotions like the Ultimate Fighting Championship or the World Wrestling Entertainment earn six figures per fight while scoring brand deals and sponsorships that feed their income.
Angel doesn’t have that level of exposure yet. So, she works at the University of Florida’s physical rehab center that treats student athletes, scheduling patients for physical therapy — a reminder of the painful limits competitors will push in hopes of accomplishing their dreams. Angel’s is to live off of fighting. Until August, she didn’t know whether that was possible. Then she won her first pro fight and the window of possibility cracked open. Now, after weeks of missed training and stress,
Angel Keihl practices for an upcoming bare-knuckle match at her martial arts studio in Gainesville, Fla., Thursday, Jan. 16, 2025. For the purposes of training, she uses gloves to portect herself and the otehr fighters. (Diego Perdomo/ Atrium Magazine)
Angel is close to cracking herself. She’s left asking, again: Is all this worth it?
Her answer at 12 years old was yes. That was when Angel’s dream of fighting began, distracting her from her father’s emotional absence while tethering her to the man himself. Professional fighting was their only bond, and they shared it on family Fridays when Angel’s parents would drive their kids to Subway for dinner, then to rent UFC matches on VHS.
The Keihls lived in a singlewide trailer on a 1,200-acre farm in Archer, Florida. The property was so big that Angel didn’t know food could be delivered to a home or that some came with neighbors. One of the video stores they rented from was only four miles down the road, but a quarter of the drive was spent just exiting their property.
Angel would nestle herself between her mom and two brothers, both older, on the living room couch. Her dad, Albert Keihl, would pace back and forth, frequently popping in from smoke breaks to watch the matches. Sometimes, the fights were old, but the Keihls didn’t care. They just liked being together weekly — well, in the weeks when Albert could partake. Oftentimes, he’d be working. Or drinking. Sometimes Albert was too physically exhausted from his work laying tiles to spend much time with his kids.
Still, the mostly routine family activity was enough to hook Angel on fighting.
Growing up, she’d tussle with one of her brothers so frequently that their mom would drive the siblings to the entrance of the farm and force them to walk home alone.
In the worst fight they had, Angel threatened to hurt her brother with an axe she grabbed. There was also the time he put Angel in a headlock and cracked her tooth. And, once, Angel broke her own toe from kicking him in the head. Her cast extended
Angel points to the silos where her family hid during Hurricane Frances in Archer, Fla., Saturday, March 8, 2025. (Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
all the way up to her knee.
Albert firmly believed men should never hit women, and he raised his boys in such a manner. But sibling fights were different.
Albert lived as he thought a man should. He rarely cried and never accepted handouts. He also never attended Angel’s sporting or school events, despite sometimes making it to the boys’. And with two brothers, Angel believed Albert wanted her to be a princess, not a fighter.
“Some days I’m like, ‘Gosh, man, did my dad ever love me?’” Angel says.
A storm was brewing.
It was the hurricane season of 2004, one of the worst in recorded U.S. history, during which over 3,100 people died. Angel, then 15, had taken cover with her family in one of the silos a few miles up the farm while Hurricane Frances raged outside. The Keihls, listening to storm updates via radio, thought it had passed — that it was safe to return to the trailer. They drove back to their house.
Wrong call.
A tornado tore through trees and blew one just a foot between the living room and where Angel was sleeping inside. All she could smell was wet mold and tree bark. All she could hear were her own screams. Albert broke through the wooden shutters blocking the window and pulled his daughter into his arms.
It was Albert who rescued her from the wreckage of their now destroyed home, and it was he who suffered from it the most.
“My dad, I don’t think ever emotionally recovered from him losing everything that he worked so hard for,” Angel says.
Albert refused to leave the farm. He married his wife on the
farm and raised his family on the farm. He wasn’t about to abandon the life he’d known there for years.
So, he and his wife lived in a separate, smaller building on the property that had no plumbing or space for a bed. For nearly two decades, Angel’s parents slept upright in a set of recliners. When Albert got sick — really sick — he and his wife moved. Angel couldn’t stand the poor conditions, so as a teenager, she started couch-surfing for shelter. And drinking for comfort.
Angel is awake and keenly aware she doesn’t want to be. But she can’t fall asleep, not when the sound of wind whipping and tree branches breaking serve as her white noise.
Even at 35, she still doesn’t like storms, and Hurricane Milton is no different. It’s just barely grazing Gainesville, hardly a threat to her new home — the first home Angel has purchased. But the ruckus
is loud, and she’s panicking.
Her boyfriend peeks through the blinds of their large bedroom window.
She asks him to please get away from there.
He tells her it’s OK.
She says, no, he does not understand.
They both decide she’ll feel safer in the living room, so Angel heads downstairs. She huddles under a mound of pillows and blankets. Her 7-year-old orange Pomeranian, Striker, usually jumping from couch to floor and back again, sits calmly glued to her side.
These have been a tough few weeks for Angel.
Knowing she had to reduce her training for an upcoming radiofrequency ablation, a procedure for her chronic neck pain, she recently added an extra practice session with coach George during her lunch break.
On one day of training, she power walks through her job at the physical
rehab center down the hall to the staff cafeteria — and though she’s watching her diet and will not be having lunch, the faint scent of her coworkers’ meals wafts through the air and up to the building’s high ceilings. Barely inside long enough for it to hit her, Angel is now speeding at a pace just shy of a jog across the staff parking lot (where she doesn’t park) and toward a nearby student apartment complex (where she does). The spot is closer to her martial arts studio, which shaves a few minutes from the drive.
With under an hour to train, her only opponent today is time. She leaps two steps forward and two back while lightly throwing a fist toward George, who tells her she needs to jump quicker and with fluidity. She needs to move without thinking.
Thirty-five minutes left. She circles a punching ball suspended in the air, chained to the floor. Her fists fly forward for real this time as her head ducks, dodging the ball’s return. She
Angel’s 7-year-old orange Pomeranian, Striker, excitedly greets his owner after she came back to Dian Keihl’s house in Archer, Fla., Saturday, March 8, 2025. (Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
Dian Keihl sorts through tile that remains in the field where her home sat about five years ago in Archer, Fla., Saturday, March 8, 2025. (Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
eyes a clock in the corner of the room.
Angel has to be changed and seated at her desk in 20 minutes. Before leaving, she throws her stuff in a gym bag and briefs George on next week’s plans.
“I have to take a day off for my procedure,” she says, “but I’ll just be here Tuesday.”
“You have your procedure on Monday, you said, right?” George asks. “Yeah.”
“So you’re gonna come in on Tuesday and do what? Just hang out?”
“I’m gonna try to work out,” she says, more a question than fact.
“Listen, don’t try to work out if you need a day of recovery,” he says. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ll see how bad it is,” she says. Then came Tuesday. And it was bad. Despite having had this exact procedure twice before, this one leaves her in severe pain and unable to turn her head to the side for two days, so she takes the whole week off.
Angel, frustrated, thinks back to her competitor, Miranda. “I bet she’s training,” she says. “I bet she’s training a lot more and she’s not taking off.”
Because of the hurricane, Angel took the next week off, too. Instead of training, she went to a UF football game where the one drink she allowed herself turned into three.
Angel’s mental health was suffering for a multitude of reasons. Whenever she paused her training for a fight, and there had never been a break as long as this one, she always felt bad about her body. She believed her technique turned stagnant. She thought herself a bad daughter and, guilt-ridden, longed to be with her mom.
“It’s a war in your head,” she says.
At 3 a.m. one morning, after restlessly ruminating on her life, she threw on a pair of sneakers and drove to the gym.
If fighting was her new addiction, then she was going through withdrawals.
when she lost her home to the storm. She’d show up to school hungover and spend all her money on alcohol. She’d graduate high school at 15 and she’d work toward an AA degree the next year at Santa Fe College, but that only granted her easier access to feed the addiction — Angel says Gainesville bars in the early 2000s allowed her inside with just a college ID.
Then, at 22, she was arrested and charged with a DUI.
She’d been driving home from a club when she was swerving between traffic lanes. In her arrest report, a police officer wrote that Angel admitted she’d had “a few drinks” and that her blood alcohol content was more than double the legal limit.
In 2012, a judge placed her on probation, ordered her to complete 50 hours of community service and fined her almost $1,000.
As a preteen, Angel drank at parties and a friend’s house here and there.
But the vice quickly turned vicious
“I have also learned a very hard lesson,” Angel wrote in a letter to the judge, requesting early release from her probation. “DONT DRINK AND DRIVE!!!”
Just a year later, her addiction
“It’s a in your head.” W A R
peaked. She missed both her parents’ birthdays, which she’d never done before. Angel considers birthdays holidays, and she takes holidays very seriously (in October, she strung her walls with cobwebs; in December, she dressed her door in wrapping paper).
This was a big deal.
She had a talk with God: “I told him, ‘Listen, if you get me through this, I’ll change my life.’”
And she did. She moved back onto the farm, reinstated her driver’s license and worked at a sports store. She sold a man boxing gloves and, after asking where he trained, added, “Could I go with you one day?”
Her first training session at the New Team Trauma in Ocala, an hourlong drive away, was brutal. But it led her to the next session, and the next after that. At 24, after training for a few months, she fought in her first match.
She emerged from a foggy, strobelit tent and entered the ring.
“I’m gonna be honest with you all,” the announcer said, Angel’s family and friends hollering in support. “This girl hits like a dude.”
“Listen, if you get me through this, I’ll change my life.”
ROUND ONE:
Within 20 seconds of the fight, Felicia Spencer, who goes by FeeNom, pummeled Angel with two, then four, now five uppercuts, backing her into the ring and slamming her body to the ground. Then she pulled an armbar, trapping Angel’s arm tight between her legs.
ROUND TWO:
Angel matched a few of Felicia’s fast kicks and punches — until Felicia mounted Angel back onto the ground, and pulled yet another armbar.
ROUND THREE:
Within nine seconds, Felicia tackled Angel into the ring behind her.
When Felicia’s win was announced, hand held to the sky, Angel clapped and fist-bumped the air, ever the good sport. But her head hung low. That was, until the announcer invited Albert Keihl into the ring.
That day, Angel didn’t know whether her father would be coming to watch her debut fight. He said he would, but she thought it was possible he was drinking and couldn’t drive. And she didn’t know if he even cared.
But there he was. She watched him chart his way from the white
cried. So did he, though he sneakily dried his tears with a blue hand towel that hung over his shoulder. He always carried one with him. Sometimes to grill. Sometimes to hide these kinds of vulnerable moments he thought made him weak.
Despite Angel’s loss in the match, she took comfort in knowing her father had witnessed it. He showed up. And he shared his love for his daughter — who he said could never
They side-hugged, and he threw up a peace sign for a photo.
The picture, along with Angel’s mouthguard and gloves from her debut fight, is still hanging in her mother Dian Keihl’s house today.
In the Williston, Florida, home, it’s a pleasant Saturday afternoon for two reasons:
One: Angel, sporting turkey slippers, is enjoying the weekend before Thanksgiving by watching the home football game between the University of Florida Gators and the Ole Miss Rebels.
Two: The Gators are actually winning.
“We got a touchdown, bubba,” Angel coos to Striker, asleep on her lap.
Angel drives to her mom’s house, located about 45 minutes from Gainesville, as many weekends as
“ I guess I never fully wrapped around my head that he would actually be there,” Angel said about her dad watching her first fight. A shadowbox of Angel’s mouthguard and gloves from the fight, plus photos of her and her dad in the ring, hangs in her mom’s house in Archer, Fla. (Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
possible. The pair call and text daily, pinging each other when they leave one place and arrive at another. But being together, even watching the home game on TV, is always better.
An advertisement for a medication that treats Alzheimer’s plays on a commercial break. A woman’s mother has fallen deeper into her disease, becoming agitated and violent with her own daughter.
“God,” Angel says. “I can’t even imagine that.”
There’s a calmness between the women in this house — a stillness much different than the chaos Angel opened Dian’s front door to four years ago.
It was raining, and hospital staff members were carrying Albert inside on a stretcher.
This was the man so prideful he
A photo of Angel and her dad sits on a shelf in her mom’s house in Archer, Fla., Saturday, March 8, 2025. (Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
wouldn’t accept a new refrigerator from FEMA. And yet, here he was lying on a gurney with a deteriorating mental state. The staff almost dropped him going up the stairs, but Angel, disturbed, still couldn’t believe her dad was dying.
Just weeks prior, Angel was living and training as a boxer in Tampa and dating her previous fighting coach she met in Ocala. But when Dian called to say Albert’s lung cancer was back and worse, Angel, then 30, uprooted her life and moved in with her parents at their new home a few miles from the farm. Albert refused to tell anyone about his illness, including his daughter, who sold him a white lie that she needed to come home because she was having financial problems. Albert underwent chemotherapy and radiation but refused to ring the bell that signified he was healthy, because he didn’t think his cancer was gone. Still dealing with his alcoholism, he bought a pack of beer after his last treatment, keeping one can to prove he
could restrain from drinking it. Four years later, the beer still sits today, full, above Dian’s TV.
Angel cared for her dad. And she watched Dian serenade him with Tanya Tucker’s “Would You Lay With Me” in his final hours.
“ Will you bathe with me in the stream of life…will you still love me, when I’m down and out.”
She saw it all. She just couldn’t believe it.
“I thought he was invincible,” she says, “and he wasn’t.”
When Albert died, so did Angel’s connection to the sport that rescued her from her alcoholism.
She became angry and, weeks later, broke up with her boyfriend and coach who suggested she jump back into training. Then he was diagnosed with cancer himself.
It was an existential, depressing time, and Angel couldn’t see any point in living. When she came close to ending her life, she thought of her mom. That’s who she fought for until fighting itself eventually came back into her life.
It happened during a random gym visit. She was working out when she locked eyes with a man who looked familiar. He introduced himself as Kenneth Panagiotakos, owner of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Swamp Academy — George’s son. He recognized her from cross-training at the martial arts studio she frequented in Tampa.
Kenneth asked Angel to attend a class at The Swamp. He followed and messaged her on Facebook to ensure she did.
When Angel prepared for her first training after 10 months, she was nervous.
“I expect a lot out of myself,” she says, “and I knew I was going to fail.”
She joined the others at the mat and began rolling with a nearby partner.
As the two sparred, grappling each other’s bodies and hoping to tap their partner out, Angel felt her body was stiffer than usual and her stamina nonexistent. But she didn’t tap out.
“ I don’t feel anxiety,” Angel said about being in the ring. “I don’t feel nervous. I don’t know, I feel like it’s my home. Like, I’m there to
put on a f––– good show — good fight. And if I die, oh, well.”
Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
There were many days before then when she was asking herself: Is this all worth it?
But, after everything, her answer was still yes.
“I knew in my heart,” she says, “that I still wanted to be a fighter.”
She sat up from the mat and started to cry.
On the mats today, almost four years later, Angel is much freer
practices since Hurricane Milton, she exudes positivity, bantering with each of the classmates she punches in five-minute-long fights.
She spots a fighter she hasn’t seen in a while who tells Angel he’s missed training because he pulled his hamstring.
“That’s what I say,” Angel replies with a wink.
After an hour, Angel and her beet-red peers signify the end to the hour’s exertion with a selfie.
George departs quickly.
But Angel lingers, her eyes alert and lit as she chats with the fighters who understand this
During her lunch break
training session two months ago, there wasn’t any time to stay and talk. In fact, when practice was over, she sprinted to her car and raced back, unbuckled, to her job. She zipped through student apartment complexes and shopping centers, doing all the “illegal shit” she could to arrive back in time — which she did. This wasn’t her first lunch practice. With fight camp, where training intensifies, and the match looming, it won’t be her last.
That day, a lot plagued Angel’s mind: The fact that she may have to reduce her work hours soon to make time for more training, her health (physical and mental), her diet, Striker and her boyfriend, coach George, her mom, what it means to be a fighter.
But she paid no mind to her car’s acceleration and speedometer, or the posed portrait of her dad affixed there.
Both he and her dashboard would tell Angel this: She was speeding.
Angel Keihl is slated to compete against Miranda Kay Barber in a bareknuckle fight later this year. If she’s victorious, it will be the fifth win for the fighter whose career spans a decade.
Angel has a close relationship with her mother Dian Keihl and schedules time to visit her most weekends.
(Diego Perdomo/Atrium Magazine)
&
Some items tell stories, shaping the past and future
story by LAYNE KNOX
by
DELIA ROSE SAUER
Pictures of the past
— A leatherbound photo album weighs heavy in her lap. The edges, soft and yellow, show the passing of time as the spine cracks to reveal pages filled with faces of loved ones who are no longer around to share their stories.
Lee “Gigee” Nelson, 76, has been the proud owner of the photo album since her grandmother passed away and her mom asked Gigee to take the album. When Gigee found the photo book in her mother’s house, she dropped to the ground and cried as she realized what a treasure it was to have the pictures. Its pages showcase black and white photographs dating back to 1885.
Gigee gets to look back on her grandmother’s wedding. She sees her grandmother wearing a floral dress and her grandfather in a suit with floral spots, both with soft smiles and kind eyes. She sees her grandfather as he lays a brick for
a house next to a dirt road.
Gigee flips the pages, peeling one from another, the protective sleeves stuck together over time. There are photos of her mother in 1938, linked arm in arm with her four sisters while wearing knee-length pinstripe skirts and belts that reflect the trends of the time.
The fate of the album rests on Gigee’s mind as she looks back into the past. Back when her grandmother was alive, she told Gigee how lucky she was to be able to take so many photos. She told her how cool it was that she could always see everyone. In a time when everything is digital, Gigee even took pictures of the album on her phone.
“I don’t care if the photos are digitized,” she said, “there is nothing that can replace the feeling of an old photo.”
aloud that the book will remain in her family. But she also voices a quiet fear they will get thrown out when she is gone. She asked her daughters once at a holiday party if they would want it; both agreed they didn’t. She closes the book, letting it settle back into place.
Her eyes water now as she hopes
“People often forget about the past, but it’s important not to forget about the past, because the past forms the future,” she said, “and it must be kept alive.”
illustrations
HILLSBORO BEACH
Pink teddy
FORT LAUDERDALE
— Expecting a new baby, Lee Sterry was certain he’d leave Britt’s, a discount department
the blue one? That was the mystery. Lee grabbed the pink bear in hopes of the newborn being a girl, having two boys already. The fluffy blush-colored toy, with a matching satin bow tied around its neck and its tongue sticking out, later sat with its arms spread wide open in his daughter’s crib as he breathed a sigh of relief that he was right.
Brantmeyer, was never lost as a child because Pink Teddy, as she affectionately named the bear, had a bell hidden within its stuffing.
“I would crawl into Mimi and Papa’s bed in the middle of the night, every night,” Anne, now 53, once said to her daughter.
As a child, the jingle rang louder as she teetered down the hall. Anne always kept it around; whether on her nightstand or dresser
in her bedroom, she knew it would stay with her no matter her age.
By the time Anne was 30, that remained true. She birthed a daughter herself and decided to gift Pink Teddy to her. As Anne brought baby Elsa home from the hospital, there was Pink Teddy in her little hands. The fluffy fur, now matted, has faded.
Elsa Brantmeyer would hold Pink Teddy as Anne read bedtime stories at night. And Pink Teddy watched over her on her nightstand when reading time was done.
“I just knew how important the bear is and it is always so fragile that I never really took it out of my room,” said Elsa, now 22.
Pink Teddy now sits on her mom’s nightstand. Elsa, being a senior in college, left Pink Teddy at home so it wouldn’t get damaged.
“I don’t think my mom knows I am going to pass it down, but I am sure she assumes I will,” she said. Pink Teddy’s arms still stretch wide open, awaiting the day that Elsa can pass it on to her own daughter.
The dollhouse
ST. PETERSBURG
— A home
two stories tall with seven rooms and one bath waits for someone to play in it. A forest green roof that complements the white exterior easily lifts off to reveal an attic. Teapots sit in a wooden cabinet, and a robin’s egg blue floral bedspread is laid perfectly, waiting for its next guest.
The house holds more memories than people; in fact, it doesn’t fit a person at all.
One day, a doll family is eating a quiet dinner while their children run up and down the halls; the next, a chef is hosting a cooking show in the kitchen with an audience of only one
little girl; the day after, a doll mom is homeschooling her children in the dining room.
The dollhouse was built in 1942, a Christmas gift for Margaret Simon when she was 7 years old. Each room and delicate detail was crafted by her father and grandfather. Margaret passed it on to her daughter, Alice Thompson. And when Alice had her daughter Maggie Thompson, she was reminded of the fond memories of her dollhouse, and gifted it to Maggie under her Christmas tree.
“I remember I loved how it was the biggest gift that year, and the doll house was
so huge to me at the time, I would spend hours playing with it,” said Maggie, now 22.
Generations of girls and their dolls loved the house for years, but they’ve grown up. The toy now hangs in Alice’s garage, as there was no other space in the attic.
“It was kind of perfect that we had it hanging in the garage,” Maggie said.
In 2024, Hurricane Helene flooded their garage and rusted their bikes, but the dollhouse remained pristine. She waits for the day she can pass on the dollhouse to her own children, but for now, it will stay protected.
Baseball cards
— He unclips his briefcase-like card organizer, flipping the lid to reveal more than 600 baseball cards per case. His fingers scan through cases of cards, each one sealed away in a protective sleeve.
One stands out in particular for 49-year-old Kenneth Shelly. A striking black and white image, the prize of this collection. A shirtless Bo Jackson, a baseball player from 1986 to 1994, stands with his football pads on and a baseball bat resting effortlessly across his broad shoulders, fitting for a dual-sport athlete.
This 1989 football card is more than a piece of paper with his photograph; it was the gateway card into Kenny’s collection. He was 8 years old when his uncle, who was also an avid collector, gifted him his first entire set of cards. His uncle gave him a set of 1987 Topps Baseball cards, which included greats like Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire.
Kenny said he knew this was a cool hobby because his friends were also into it. With baseball, basketball and football cards at his fingertips, Kenny wanted to collect them all, but the baseball cards were what spoke to him the most — he played the sport in his youth. As high school rolled around and the stress of academics
and sports weighed heavily on him, the collection fell to the back of his mind and under his bed.
While scrolling through social media one night, he saw a baseball card for sale. Something in him reawakened.
“I realized that now I had my own adult money, and I thought it could be fun to get back into something that brought me joy,” Kenny said. With online shopping, card collecting no longer looks like going to the store and picking up a random pack with no idea of the mystery cards inside.
Kenny has tens of thousands of cards but has never gotten them appraised.
“I would say my whole collection is probably worth roughly $10,000,” he said.
It’s a price beyond anything his 8-yearold self could imagine. Every few weeks or so, Kenny organizes his card cases, bringing order to the state of chaos his childhood self left.
POMPANO BEACH
t r i m What’s
mag.org Online?
The oaks will remember
Junebug
Meet Mary Gregory, an English woman in her 90s, who preserved a space with her late husband that now provides solace for neglected and abused equines.
A poem based on a childhood chasing frogs and lizards with her brother in the Florida summer heat.
story by TARRYN NICHOLS
poem by CATALINA MARTINEZWITTINGHAN
photo by LAUREN BRENSEL
illustration by DELIA ROSE SAUER
design by DELIA ROSE SAUER
TRUE FLORIDA STORIES WE? Who are
Our story began in 2021, when then-University of Florida professor Moni Basu wanted to amplify Florida’s underrepresented voices. She recruited journalism students to combine their reporting experience with literary writing techniques to explore life in the Sunshine State. Basu pioneered the values we still hold today: in-depth narrative nonfiction storytelling told through beautiful writing and reporting.
Atrium was born.
We published our inaugural issue in 2021, artfully introducing audiences to the lives, longings and struggles of their Florida neighbors. Since then, we’ve published an annual print edition and year-round reported stories, personal essays, photo essays, audio features and poetry on our website, atriummag.org.
Atrium Magazine consistently wins awards from major organizations — including the Florida chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists and the Association for Education in Journalism and Mass Communication — for its original, captivating and true Florida stories.
Atrium magazine wants to hear from you.
Atrium is always looking for writers, designers, illustrators and photographers who are eager to bring Florida’s stories to life.
If you’ve dreamed of seeing your work on the pages of a magazine, reach out. Whether you have a quick thought or a lengthy pitch, we’re waiting to hear from you. There’s room for your voice on our pages.
From left to right: Lauren Brensel, Luena Rodriguez-Feo Vileira, Delia Rose Sauer and Diego Perdomo
Taste Tasteof of
Behind the scenes of an annual food festival built by the Key West community
Kaylee Santopietro walks up to the pier at Truman Waterfront Park with a map and a mission. In the next 24 hours, this space will fill with tents, kitchen supplies, generators, porta potties, recycling bins and most importantly, thousands of people. As the event coordinator for a festival called Taste of Key West, Santopietro is laser-focused on the initial setup, which currently involves laying out bright orange duct tape on the concrete. She looks up from the sections she’s created. This restaurant goes here. The beer tent goes there. The wine tent goes here. These careful calculations are just a taste of what the festival has in store, the first step for the 100-person crew that will bring the plans to life.
Nestled at the tail end of Florida’s
island cities, in the southernmost point of the continental U.S., Key West is home to a tight-knit, bustling community that takes any chance to congregate in celebration. The town is known for its extravagant if not eccentric festivals, attracting locals and tourists alike.
Taste of Key West is one of these events, held annually at a pier overlooking the western waters. This three-hour celebration of local flavors gives restaurants and prospective customers the chance to meet in one place, as guests weave between food, wine and beer stands serving samples to anyone with tasting tickets.
Now, Taste of Key West has returned in spring for its 30th year, hosting over 4,000 guests. A smaller event team and members of a local nonprofit assemble most of the festival, with the help of over 100 volunteers.
story by ASHLEY RODRIGUEZ
ASHLEY RODRIGUEZ and ELLA THOMPSON
Months beforehand, Santopietro sat at home sending emails, making calls and getting as many restaurants as possible on board. She expects to host some regulars, from several waterfront fine-dining restaurants to a hot dog stand.
Less than a mile from the pier, volunteer coordinator Liz Love drives toward a repurposed church where volunteers have already lined up on the street. Love runs over, door keys in hand.
Inside the church, colorful glass panes, tall ceilings and dark purple curtains form a stately backdrop for the group’s meeting, where volunteers will review the event details. Some of the seats fill with members of the community service group, the
photos by
Southernmost Coconut Castaways, beloved this year for their staffing of the beer and wine tents.
Paul Duma, the Coconut Castaways’ membership director, anticipates pouring beers after working different corners of the event for over a decade. Sometimes that meant helping vendors get what they needed. Other times, he assumed the role of ambassador, eyes peeled for any person whipping their head around in confusion, ready to shake away their worries with a smile and an answer to their question. Having worked in restaurants all his life, he knows what to anticipate from event goers.
As the volunteers begin settling down, Love passes around a signin sheet while Nadene Grossman Orr, the festival’s director, plops a bag of demonstration items down on the stage. The stash features a wine glass, a beer pint and dark
blue T-shirts with event branding.
“Let’s get this party started,” Grossman Orr says, before addressing the volunteers with a raised eyebrow.
“Remember,” she adds, “this is called taste of Key West.”
Laughter erupts from the crowd, which catches onto what Grossman Orr is implying. There’s a delicate balance between giving the attendees what they want and leaving just enough to be desired. Duma remembers when customers threw tickets at him for a full pour; he reminded them there are rules he must abide by.
Grossman Orr brings out the glassware and points at the serving cutoff, just below the Taste of Key West logo — a cue to avoid completely inebriating the crowd.
Once they’re dismissed, most of the volunteers exit through the open arches where a cool breeze passes through. Some stay back to ask questions or make casual conversation. The Coconut Castaways stand in one corner.
“Hi Paul!” one woman says. “Paul!” another one chimes. Duma greets two volunteers warmly with a hug. The smiling faces are his reason for returning each year, he said. This reward comes before the event has even begun.
A week before the event, Santopietro and the rest of the Taste of Key West team are on crunch time. Grossman Orr is working closely with a local news publication
Gede Candra Kusuma (front) and Scott Maurer (back) pass out samples to attendees with tickets on Monday, March 24, 2025. (Ashley Rodriguez/Atrium Magazine)
A large boat parks days before the Taste of Key West event will fill the Truman Waterfront Park with tents, samples and thousands of attendees on Monday, March 17, 2025. (Ella Thompson/Atrium Magazine)
to create a comprehensive map for attendees.
Santopietro locks in the last couple of restaurants, relaying the information to Grossman Orr.
A few days before the event, Scott Maurer, the executive chef at Hot Tin Roof Restaurant, meets with his team of chefs in the morning to begin preparation. The
introduce him to his wife, a pastry chef. The pair moved to Key West in 2015 to pursue job opportunities. Now Maurer’s wife, Charity Maurer, works with him at Hot Tin Roof.
In the early mornings preceding the festival, the team of chefs narrowly whiz past one another in their prep kitchen. The tight space buzzes with
and sedans as they drive into the parking lot of Truman Waterfront Park. Any onlookers may be confused to see these cars on the sidewalks and grass if it weren’t for Santopietro playing traffic control, waving a sparkly gold binder to direct vendors and patrons.
“It’s going to be a good day,” Santopietro sings.
lays down decorative grass on the table. She fluffs the blades and takes them to another table to cut out flowers and place them within the grass.
Directly across from them, Duma arrives at the beer tent at 4:45 p.m. The group assigned to the tent loads beer cans onto ice. They separate cardboard boxes and beverages,
Ally Bundy (left) sets up a selfie station with the help of load-in volunteers in on Monday, March 24, 2025. (Ashley Rodriguez/Atrium Magazine)
Michael Hutchings and Scott Maurer haul a cooler off their pickup truck in preparation for the culinary event in Key West, Fla., Monday, March 24, 2025. (Ashley Rodriguez/Atrium Magazine)
Santopietro checks her smart watch. It’s finally showtime.
At 6 p.m., guests quickly roll into the ticket booths
Briening is a well-known face in the community (thanks to her roundup of front-facing jobs, including one at the local newspaper).
few favorite restaurants (as well as some potential new favorites), hoping to try a few wine selections in the middle
huge grin as he interacts with hundreds of guests. As he continues pulling beers from their ice bath, water drips from his soaking-
their exclusive lanyards and purple wristbands. Then she exits, engulfed by a sea of thousands of people.
Emerging from the crowd, Briening takes her place, spotting a familiar friend working at the VIP tent. The worker and another of Briening’s friends immediately huddle together to catch up.
“It’s a good place to reconnect with people,” Briening says.
A few vendors down at Scott Maurer’s tent, he and his crew deliver tacos and brownies to the hungry crowd, which he says is visibly larger than previous years. Just before 7 p.m., the restaurant staff displays their last prepared set of tacos.
“Well, that was quick,”
Scott Maurer says, studying the table in disbelief.
The event doesn’t end for another two hours, and there’s no sign of the crowd slowing down. The team will just have to make sure the bacon brownies are enough to satisfy passing attendees.
Then, Charity Maurer brings a tray of brownies to the front table.
“This is it,” she says.
The restaurant’s food and beverage manager, Sarah Kelley, looks over, and her eyes widen.
“Shut up — are you serious?” Kelley asks.
Scott Maurer replies with a joke about how the crew should
send out the charcuterie snacks they have in the cooler.
“We’ll do dynamic pricing. Five tickets. Six tickets,” he says.
Kelley hands one lucky customer the last dessert.
Maurer checks his watch. The time reads 7:09 p.m.
Briening strolls around the pier in no rush to reach each vendor. She gets her hands on one of her favorite samples of the night, a lobster roll.
As the sun finally sets, casting strokes of peach and tangerine through the sky, guests ease their way to the end of the pier to take photos.
Santopietro uses the time to check on the vendors, channeling updates to the event team and volunteers.
The darkening sky welcomes another shift in the attendees.
People move their feet and bop their heads, loosening up as music streams through the speakers of a nearby DJ booth. Estelle’s “American Boy” plays, and a man in line for a restaurant moves his head and sings along.
Back at his tent, Scott Maurer and his crew sit on chairs and coolers, still reeling from how quickly the night and the samples left them. Maurer runs through questions and possible solutions in his mind, disappointed the restaurant’s plans had fallen short.
Then a guest approaches the table.
“My kid really needs a water,” she says. “I’ve gone to a bunch of vendors.”
Kelley rises from the cooler, letting the woman know they have a few bottles to spare. Scott Maurer lights up then, a quick flicker of amusement in his eyes.
He furrows a brow before meeting the woman’s gaze.
“Eight tickets. Dynamic pricing,” he jokes.
At 9 p.m., the staff take down their tents, vendors pack their cars and the crowd gradually files out. Clean-up volunteers cruise around in golf carts, taking trash bags out, emptying recycling bins and conserving any of the used glasses that attendees left behind.
Santopietro watches the last of the VIP guests leave the tent, thanking her for a wonderful event. She sighs with relief. Briening steps off the pier.
“I’m very full,” she thinks to herself.
In previous years, Briening took a five-minute walk to the Green Parrot, a nearby bar. But this time, she heads to the bike racks. She cruises straight home, passing the dim green lights of the establishment where locals flock, drinking until it’s time for their next event.
“It’s a good place to reconnect with people.”
Losin g him twice
Loving and grieving my dad through early onset Alzheimer’s disease
I’m afraid of my dad’s bedroom. The bare, unlit space smells of old urine and disease, holding nothing but a bed stripped of its sheets and a streak of blood staining the wall. A weathered wheelchair sits in the bathroom; on top, a folded cotton shirt and shorts he was supposed to wear the morning he was sent to hospice.
I prefer to keep Dad’s bedroom door closed. It allows me to pretend he’s inside snoring or jotting down notes in the newspaper. The door, which still carries an alarm system, hides the reminders of the person he became.
On Feb. 13, my dad passed away from complications of Alzheimer’s disease. For six days, he lay in a twin bed in a hospice room, his shallow breaths growing farther apart and his jagged bones poking into his grayish skin, as if they could pierce through at any moment. His jaw rested open, and his eyes were permanently shut from high doses of morphine and a lack of energy, listening to strangers say goodbye.
•••
Dad woke up every day at 6:30 a.m. He went for a brisk 2-mile jog, showered, shaved his stubbled chin (leaving the master bathroom smelling of baby powder and menthol) and put on a tailored Brooks Brothers suit with a red tie. Before cruising to the law office in his 1990 bronze Cadillac, he filled a Ziploc bag with peanuts and a sandwich: whole wheat bread and two slices of American cheese. When he arrived home from 5 p.m. traffic, he stood in the entryway
of our galley kitchen while my twin brother and I fought our way into his arms, finding comfort in the familiar scent of his suit jacket. I sat on the counter next to the oven, giggling and telling him stories from swim practice, watching him pour several glasses of red wine while cooking pesto pasta or ragu bolognese. He had a strict bedtime of 8:30 p.m., often leading to irritated shouts if the
story by ALEXANDRA BURNS
living room television was too loud. Even on the weekends, Dad stuck to a routine. He drove my brother and me to the Palm Beach Zoo. We hustled through the maze of wild animals and pointed fingers at the anteater, Dad imitating its long tongue poking at ants. When we’d come home, he showered and sat in his designated silk living room chair with a highlighter, surrounded
Dad poses in front of a restaurant in Paris during his family’s month-long vacation throughout Europe in 2002. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
illustrations by EMILY MORENO
design
It started with typical everyday mistakes
by legal pads and stacked printed files organized by case and title. Sunday mornings were for watching “Saturday Night Live,” recorded from the previous day, the final act in our unvarying weekend ritual.
Dad was old-school and traditional — a grumpy man if his schedule was disrupted. He was the opposite of a risk taker, though my mom claims he was quite the partier in law school. His regimented lifestyle made Mom fall in love with him, but it also made it easier for her to know when something was off.
It started with typical everyday mistakes: misplacing his Cadillac keys in the refrigerator, scattering his notes throughout the house and forgetting the fried chicken recipe he hand-made every Saturday night. He started to ask more questions, and he couldn’t remember the names of my friends or the drama I told him about the night before. His forgetfulness eventually turned into frustration, causing him to frantically scribble incoherent notes across his legal pads or the newspaper, perhaps thinking if he wrote down his thoughts enough times, he could never lose them.
I didn’t see the signs like Mom did. To me, Dad was becoming more fun, more willing to let loose. The year before he was diagnosed, he drove us to Williams-Sonoma, where we browsed aisles of gourmet Dutch ovens and chef knives, and he taught me what each pot was used for and the Italian pasta sauces we could create in them. Before leaving, he swiftly took out his credit
card without a second thought and purchased a $90 pizza stone. He didn’t remember we had the same pizza stone, still sitting untouched in its box, on the top shelf of our pantry.
so I would “remember it more.”
We organized his new travel book collection on our antique dining room table, and, over the next two weeks, handwrote an itinerary: land at JFK airport, visit the Met Museum, walk through Central Park, take pictures in front of the New York Times office. But the morning we planned to book the airplane tickets, Mom asked me to come into her room, close the door behind me and keep my voice down. She said Dad had unexpectedly broken down in front of her, hysterically crying while asking, “Where am I?”
Later that month, Dad and I took a weekend trip to the local Barnes & Noble, where he spent over $100 on New York travel books and maps. For years, I begged him to take me to Rockefeller Plaza so we could take pictures under the NBC Studios neon sign. But only now did he agree, despite once wanting to wait until I was older
“I don’t trust him to get you home safely,” she told me.
It was obvious she felt guilty for crashing down on our plans. There was sadness in her eyes, but at the time, I thought she was paranoid — simply overreacting. I didn’t leave my room the next day. I endlessly complained to my mom, texting snarky comments about her to my eighth-grade friends and ignoring her when she asked me about school.
I was angry with Dad, too, for not standing up for himself or the trip we dedicated so many hours to planning and daydreaming about. I thought he’d experienced a weak moment, a mental breakdown, and that there was nothing to worry about. It was easy for Mom and I to ignore his symptoms, to chalk them up to more reasonable excuses, like he was drinking too much red wine at night or was depressed and stressed from his busy caseload at work. But Dad’s meltdown proved to Mom there was a deeper issue, leading her to spend
Dad poses before leaving for his first day as an attorney at a new law office in Miami, Fla., in 2000. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
Soon
months dragging him to neurologist and therapist appointments.
I think, deep down, she knew Alzheimer’s was a possibility — the worst-case scenario we often associate with forgetfulness and aging — and why no excuse from doctors was ever good enough.
I didn’t care when Mom told my brother and I that my dad’s neurologist diagnosed him with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. We were having dinner at my cousin’s house when my mom sat us down in the backyard to break the news. Dad was 58. My brother and I were 14. The concept of Alzheimer’s was unknown to me, and I was more annoyed with the rain soaking through my jeans from the moldy seat cushion I was sitting on.
I didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t cry. We resumed dinner, and I went home with my parents as I had every night, thinking nothing had significantly changed.
Looking back, my refusal to accept his diagnosis was due to my lack of knowledge about the disease. Alzheimer’s was the nightmare I briefly heard from my friends — their grandma was diagnosed with dementia and couldn’t remember their name — or on “60 Minutes” episodes, which showed clips of old men with dementia who could still carry on conversations and walk without assistance.
I didn’t know what to expect, and since I couldn’t understand my father’s disease, I chose to ignore it.
But Dad became more erratic, and it was easy to notice his mind was slipping.
When I was 16, he began to swim in our backyard obsessively — he’d freestyle a couple of laps, walk back inside, dry off and head right back into the pool. He would also repeatedly leave the house, walk to the end of the street and walk home, forgetting he had already gone 10 times before. He gave up cooking and stopped picking up books and the newspaper.
We often found comfort in laughing during his most bewildering moments — because if we didn’t laugh, we’d cry.
He sat around the house, asking us the same questions and looking confused when we told him a story.
I was embarrassed to invite friends over. I could sense how uncomfortable they felt when he came in and out of my bedroom to say hello or called them by the wrong name.
Dad was happy, but his mind and independence were fading. We often found comfort in laughing during his most bewildering moments — because if we didn’t laugh, we’d cry.
Everyone looked up to my dad. He was the one you called up for legal advice or help making a major life decision — family members who needed help sifting through their bills, friends who wanted a “big deal” attorney to fight their case. Dad radiated importance. His former colleagues still say they admire his work ethic and miss his dry, sometimes offensive, humor. Dad was also arrogant, but he had every reason to be: he was a dedicated father, loyal husband and charming, handsome attorney who fought to preserve the Everglades.
My father’s intelligence was what he and so many of us valued most about him. There’s always been a sense of shock among my family when we talk about his diagnosis, which stole everything from him. Alzheimer’s has always sounded like an evil coincidence, a parasite that was hungry for the things that made Dad himself.
When Dad was diagnosed, he firmly asked my mom not to tell any of his coworkers or friends. He simply disappeared from his life before. Former colleagues and friends sent emails, asking what happened and if he was still practicing law. They asked if he changed his phone number or if they could meet for coffee. But Dad never responded, and my mom followed his wishes, so the emails and phone calls eventually stopped coming.
I was always angry Dad chose to ignore them, to betray his friends by disappearing from their lives and never
after his birth, Dad takes a nap on the couch with my brother in 2003. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
What is Alzheimer’s Disease?
• Alzheimer’s disease affects about 580,000 Floridians aged 65 or older.
• Early-onset Alzheimer’s is a type of Alzheimer’s that affects people younger than 65.
• About 6.9 million Americans are living with the disease. About 5% of Americans diagnosed with Alzheimer’s have earlyonset.
• The neurological disorder destroys an individual’s memory and cognitive and physical skills.
• It leads to symptoms such as anxiety, depression, aggression, memory loss and difficulty performing everyday tasks like walking, communicating and eating.
• The disease causes an individual’s brain to atrophy, or shrink, while it kills neurons and creates plaque build-up.
saying goodbye. But I understand now. He was embarrassed to admit he had an incurable weakness and was no longer the witty man his friends knew. Dad never liked showing emotion or “stupidity,” so it was easier to go out in silence. His mind was his strength; I think he believed he would become nothing without it.
Caring for Dad over the last eight years instilled chaos into our lives. We had to adjust our thoughts, future and home to him as he continued to decline, becoming more of a vessel for the disease than a person.
Four years after his diagnosis, I moved away to college, and his simple fogginess and confusion rapidly accelerated, eventually turning him into a danger to himself. Mom never expected it; doctors often said he could last 20 years or five.
“Every patient is different,” they said, referring to symptoms as much as life expectancy.
I came home for Christmas break freshman year to find he couldn’t remember my name. At first, he thought I was his sister or wife. Other times, he thought I was a familiar friend or an enemy.
The following summer, I noticed he couldn’t understand his emotions or find the words to express his needs. He forgot to eat dinner or ravaged through the fridge and stole food off our plates, unable to recognize if he was hungry or full. He’d sit trembling on the couch, searching for the words to tell us he was cold or wanted a blanket.
It became a constant guessing game: Will Dad be cold tonight, should we put a sweatshirt on him before bed? He won’t stop opening the fridge, is he hungry? He keeps unbuttoning his shorts, does he need to use the bathroom?
There was always miscommunication between us. Mom and I repeated ourselves to him while he stared blankly or mumbled sentences we couldn’t understand, a combination of words that didn’t
go together and vocabulary he must have created on his own.
He became obsessive compulsive; every tiny object in the room bothered him. The tapping of his feet, rustling of papers and screeching furniture followed him as he repeatedly circled the house. It was as if he would have been happier in an empty room, maybe because his mind was already too cluttered with thoughts floating away.
Then he got angry and frustrated by his shortcomings, which made him mean and aggressive. His once cheerful babbling turned to screams and growls when Mom attempted to transfer him from the wheelchair to shower, often leading to my brother having to carry him.
He hit Mom and screamed “fuck you bitch” when she shaved his beard.
He’d lock his legs and urinate on the floor in protest when she changed his diaper, and he’d grab my shoulders and forcefully shake when I tried to lead him into the car.
We began to hide the knives in the back of a kitchen cabinet. Mom started asking us to put away our personal items, like computers and paperwork, because he’d obsessively pick them up, rip them apart or stick them in his mouth.
forgot to wrap up the cupcakes and handmade candles I decorated for my family for Christmas. I woke up to smashed cupcakes with large bites taken out of them, cupcake tin included, and gashes in the candle wax. We still wonder if he ate the candles.
day; we became prisoners in our
own home, never able to leave unless there was one person with our dad.
On New Year’s Eve, Mom tasked me with staying home with him so she could take a vacation with family for the night. I offered him a sandwich and tucked him into bed, leaving the bedroom thinking he was asleep.
There was a slight banging on the sliding glass doors behind the living room, but I thought nothing of it, expecting it was just fireworks. Ten minutes later, I walked outside to find my dad shivering, standing naked by the pool, dripping in water. He had managed to break open his door and fall into the pool.
And yet, I had it easy. I could drive back to college and forget the animal my dad was becoming. Mom lost herself. Her confidence diminished as she gave her entire being to a man who could now never be satisfied. She stopped laughing and singing around the house, afraid the noise would annoy him; she never slept in fear he would escape or hurt himself; she stopped calling to ask about school, because she always had something more important to do like researching how we could financially and physically afford to treat my dad.
My brother had no choice but to stay at home to help care for him instead of moving away to college. He would often sleep during the day so he could be awake at night to comfort Dad when he became agitated.
Caring for him warped our sense of time. Life became what we had to do for him each day. His life and happiness became ours. It transformed into not just trying to get through each day but working to get through the next years as painlessly as possible.
We baby-proofed the house to ensure he was safe from himself at all times. Mom spent most of her afternoons researching health insurance plans or calculating how we could afford the next couple years, especially if we had to hire part-time assistance. She was always meeting
with doctors, working to try to find a different anti-anxiety drug or change his medication dosages in the hope it would decrease his aggression.
Toward the end, his anger subsided slightly, as he no longer had the energy to fight back as often. He slept for most of the day and struggled to open his eyes and walk. His body started to melt away, his skin growing thinner and his cheekbones becoming more defined because he couldn’t remember how to swallow food or water.
The last time I saw him, before he split his forehead open and was sent to the emergency room and
hospice, he stared at me with soulless eyes. It was most clear to me at that moment that the man blankly sitting there was not my father.
Dad left a long time ago.
For years, I hated him. Though it wasn’t his fault, I was disgusted by the way he screamed when I put on his sweatshirt and the way he treated Mom when she tried to help. I hated the language he used, the demeaning words he yelled. I thought, he did this to Mom, he’s why she’s aged 10 years in four. I struggled to recognize the person
Dad bakes his family’s chocolate cake and buttercream frosting recipe with me and my brother in 2006. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
in front of me: a man who used to make me laugh so hard I fell to the floor. A father who cut up my pancakes into bite-sized triangles every Sunday morning before helping me with my science homework. I couldn’t relate to who he became, and I could never understand his anger, or vulgarity, so it became easier to separate Dad from the disease that took over his body.
When he was first diagnosed, Mom asked him what Alzheimer’s felt like. He said he would “have a thought and then it would just disappear like a cloud of smoke.”
I often feel the same way about my memories of him.
My resentment of the disease made it challenging to remember what he was really like — what made him Dad. The images of his comforting face have slipped from my memory. Perhaps it was a result of passing time, or a coping mechanism to prevent his decline from having too much of an impact on my life.
I was forced to grieve my dad while he was withering away in front of me, still breathing and talking for eight years. And I wondered if
the second grieving process, after his heart and breathing finally stopped, might feel more like what therapists say to expect.
Sometimes, I secretly hoped he would pass away in his sleep. I thought it would relieve Mom and my brother from the neverending cycle of caring for him. And I knew Dad never wanted this.
I expected it to be peaceful. I thought I’d be filled with an incredible sense of freedom. Our family could finally move on with our lives, and Dad would be removed from his suffering.
After his passing, there was a sense of relief. The sun shines brighter in
our home, and my brother seems less anxious when I visit on the weekends. Our lives do feel like they have begun again, even if it’s still taking some getting used to.
Mom often says the “hardest things in life make you the strongest,” but I’ve struggled to notice a positive difference within myself over the last eight years — a growth in character opposed to my new fear of dying or waking up with a terminal illness. I worry about the future, if Dad’s genetics predispose my brother and me to the same suffering. I question the purpose of our lives since one day it will all be over and memories of us will be forgotten. And I’ve noticed, too, a new anger within myself — a hatred for Dad’s bad luck. I can’t comprehend that out of 8 billion people, Alzheimer’s chose to prey on him. I’m enraged that Dad never had a choice; he was forced to transform into a helpless child, to surrender his memories, relationships and joy to the disease.
Mom still flinches when the phone rings, expecting a call with news that my father has hit a nurse at daycare or thrown his food at another patient. I still forget I can now enter
Dad and I smile as we take a tractor ride through Uncle Donald’s Farm in Lady Lake, Fla., in 2006. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
Dad naps beside me while suffering from a kidney stone in 2008. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
our house through the front door, which had been child-locked to prevent our dad from breaking it down at night. When Mom calls to say she’s going to bed, I often accidentally ask if Dad has fallen asleep yet, forgetting there’s a new silence and emptiness in our home.
It’s almost as if I miss his obnoxious banging and screaming because at least it would mean he hadn’t ceased to exist.
A couple of months after Dad’s diagnosis, he and Mom decided to pack up our Delray Beach vacation apartment and put it on the market. We spent the weekend there, sleeping among cardboard boxes and Clorox wipes, while Dad remained seemingly cheerful despite knowing what was to come.
On our last night, Dad and I sat in pajamas on pink Adirondack chairs facing the ocean. We brought flashlights, but Dad chose not to use them since the moon happened to be so bright.
We sat criss cross applesauce, afraid the fire ants would attack us if our feet touched the sand. Dad asked me about my classmates, where I wanted to go to college and if I still hoped to pursue competitive swimming. I asked him about his mom who had passed before I was born, how it felt when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and what it was like growing up throughout the country.
I wish I had asked more questions.
I wish I spent the three hours studying his mind, analyzing how he phrased his sentences and sarcastically laughed.
I should have asked him what moving by himself to Boston for college felt like, why he decided to be a lawyer, when the first time he drank alcohol was and what his first college party was like. Was he happy? Did he feel fulfilled with his life? Was he scared?
Mom takes an updated picture of Dad to provide to authorities in case he goes missing in Florida, Tuesday, Feb. 8, 2022. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
The man blankly
sitting there was not my father. Dad left a long time ago.
Dad have motivated me to ask more questions, even to strangers. I’ve learned to take advantage of the boring road trips with family or the days when I would prefer to rot in bed and cancel plans with friends. Those moments are often the perfect chance to understand better the ones we love, or perhaps the ones we misunderstand.
And the questions, regardless of how trivial or intrusive they might sound, provide a selection of memories and pictures to choose from when they’re gone.
Dad shouldn’t have had to live angry and confused for eight years.
Mom shouldn’t have had to watch the man she calls her “perfect puzzle piece” forget who she was,
sacrificing a part of herself for him.
My brother shouldn’t have had to spend his nights picking Dad off the floor instead of spending time with friends.
And the one time I told Dad how much I loved him, and how often I use the lessons he instilled in me, shouldn’t have been when he was unconscious in a hospice bed.
But it happened. And like Dad used to say, “There’s nothing I can do about it right now.”
•••
The week Dad spent his final days in hospice, Mom stayed the nights with him while I slept at my cousin’s house. On the final morning, I wasn’t surprised to learn my dad
died. But I was startled by the dream I had awoken from at about 3 a.m. It was of Dad, which was odd since I never dreamed about him. I was a child, looking up at him, and he still had his muscular arms and youthful face. We chatted playfully, yet I couldn’t recall what was said.
Later that day, I sat with Mom, looking at the fresh flowers we received while reviewing Dad’s will. I’m not a religious or spiritual person, but she is, so I thought it might ease her mind to tell her about the dream. She told me she heard Dad take his last breath around 3:30 a.m. And she said it made sense that he spoke to me so casually. Dad was never the type of person to say goodbye.
My Dad, my brother and I celebrate his birthday in our childhood home in 2006. (Courtesy of the Burns Family)
Tell me a story — Illuminate, speak the truth. And I will be strong
haiku by MONI BASU | illustration by DELIA ROSE SAUER
design by DELIA ROSE SAUER
TRUE FLORIDA STORIES