Caribe motel

One of many joyful moments with my grandparents and cousins at Caribe Motel

This is where it all started. I was tasked to write a short story in my high school sophomore English class. As I started writing I decided I wanted to incorporate the loss of my grandfather, this led to reminiscing about my childhood with my Dada, especially the many memories we shared at their mom-and-pop motel. With reflection, I realized that I had so many unanswered questions that died with my grandfather. This sparked a newfound need to document and preserve these stories so that no journey is left untold in my community. The short story that sparked it all is below.

The chipped turquoise door of the Caribe Motel yawned open, releasing a waft of coconut oil that mingled with the humid Florida air. Neeva, barely seven, wrinkled her nose in a familiar affection. The peeling white paint and faded shutters of the two-story building of rooms were like old friends, their imperfections marking the passage of time. Her parents emerged from the rental car, the scent of the jasmine bushes complementing the tropical breeze. This wasn't their palatial Massachusetts life, but there was still a sense of nostalgia every time they visited. This was Ba and Dada's America, etched into the sun-bleached wood and worn linoleum of the Caribe. It wasn't just a vacation; it was a pilgrimage. Each year, the motel hummed with the ghosts of past visits, whispered memories woven into the creak of the screen door and the sigh of the ceiling fan. Neeva found solace in the small rituals. Perched on the counter, she watched Ba's calloused hands knead roti, the rhythmic thump a lullaby from her childhood. Dada, hunched over his newspaper on the worn couch, was an anchor in the ever-shifting world. Days were painted with vibrant brushstrokes: the shriek of monkeys at the Jungle, Neeva perched on Dada's shoulders, their laughter echoing through the trees. The sticky sweetness of coconut milkshakes at Robert is Here, mingled with the dust of the road and the cluck of hopeful roosters. Joe, a weathered fixture of the motel, brought them trinkets, his gruff voice softening with Dada's kindness. Evenings unfolded in the backyard, a symphony of chirping lizards and rustling leaves. Under the star-dusted sky, Neeva and Shaan chased each other, their giggles weaving through the jasmine-scented air. From her windowpane, Neeva watched the motel breathe. Each new arrival, a bell's chime signaling their own fleeting story. The Caribe Motel wasn't grand, but within its embrace, Neeva discovered the treasures of family, of shared laughter, and of the quiet magic woven into the tapestry of ordinary days. It was a reminder that home wasn't just a place, but a feeling, carried within her wherever she went.

The Caribe Motel, once a vibrant tapestry woven with laughter and coconut oil, faded into the hazy canvas of Neeva's memory. The news arrived not with a bang, but a whimper, like the tide slowly retreating from the shore. Their family's cornerstone, her beloved Ba and Dada, were relinquishing their kingdom, trading sun-bleached wood and worn linoleum for an unknown future in a distant, affluent town. For Neeva, a child navigating the burgeoning complexities of adolescence, the shift was met with bewilderment. Why leave the haven of childhood summers, the echo of monkey screeches and the sticky-sweet tang of coconut milkshakes? Yet, for her grandparents, it was a bittersweet exhale, a promise of freedom after years shackled to the motel's demands. But life, it seemed, had its own cruel script. Their year of newfound liberation was snatched away by the invisible claws of Covid, a pandemic that descended upon their world like a suffocating fog. Neeva, miles away in Massachusetts, watched helplessly as the distance became an abyss, their laughter replaced by the sterile silence of video calls. Each update on Ba and Dada's health, hospitalized and tethered to machines, was a shard of ice piercing her heart. Weeks bled into months, and amidst the suffocating uncertainty, Dada's valiant fight mirrored the virus's ruthless relentlessness. Neeva witnessed the silent tears etching themselves onto her mother's face, the echo of fervent prayers bouncing off virtual screens. His loss, when it finally came, was a thunderclap, leaving a hollowness that resonated with the absence of his booming laughter and gentle wisdom. The grief was a tidal wave, amplified by the loss of Joe, their motel confidante, who had also passed. At Dada's funeral, masked faces concealed the raw, collective ache. In a voice trembling with a grief far too heavy for her seventh-grade shoulders, Neeva bid farewell, knowing that with each choked word, a fragment of her childhood slipped away forever. The Caribe Motel might have closed its doors, but the memories, like stubborn sunbeams, refused to be erased. And though the future stretched before them, uncertain and veiled in grief, Neeva knew that somewhere within, her Dada's laughter, the essence of their summers by the sea, would continue to echo, a beacon guiding her through the shadows.

Three years had bled dry since Dada's passing, and we – a hollowed-out echo of our former family – found ourselves drawn back to the Caribe Motel, now draped in the jarring moniker of "Nexx." Gone were the sun-bleached hues of our childhood haven, replaced by a stark black facade that swallowed the warmth whole. Where laughter once danced on the breeze, an unsettling silence now reigned. Even the parking lot, once a stage for my carefree pirouettes, felt foreign beneath my feet. Each step was a pilgrimage towards an absence, a stark reminder of the void left by Ba and Dada's welcoming arms.  Inside, the metamorphosis was a sucker punch. Rooms that hummed with family gatherings now sported stripper poles and mirrored ceilings, a lurid mockery of the jasmine-scented haven I remembered. The familiar turquoise sign, replaced by a garish imposter, felt like a personal betrayal. Even their living quarters, a sanctum sanctorum in my memory, had been converted into a "deluxe room," desecrating its sacred space. A wave of nausea churned in my gut, threatening to pull the rug from under my already unsteady legs. Dada's absence here, amidst the jarring transformation, felt more profound, more deafening than in the sterile silence of the hospital. Here, surrounded by the ghosts of his laughter, the reality of his absence hit with the force of a tidal wave. Seeking solace, we stumbled into Robert is Here, but even the vibrant colors seemed muted by the weight of our grief. Robert himself, usually a fount of jovial greetings, seemed dimmed, his smile strained as he handed me my coconut milkshake and boiled peanuts. Each sip, each bite, was a hollow ritual, an attempt to both savor and escape the suffocating sorrow that enveloped us. The Caribe Motel, once a melody of laughter and coconut oil, now echoed with the emptiness of our loss. The return, I had foolishly hoped, would offer a balm, a chance to revisit the carefree days.  Instead, it had ripped open the scabbed wound, exposing the raw ache beneath. In its place, a new truth settled in my heart – some journeys have no return, some chapters are forever closed, and the ghosts of joy, once vibrant, can only shimmer as bittersweet memories in the halls of time.

Based on a real story.