Some places don’t just shape our days—they quietly shape how we remember them.
Morning light over the Intracoastal. This was my view for six years—beautiful, steady, and somehow always changing.
I think the thing I remember most about living in West Palm Beach is how hard it is to date the memories. Six years seem to have flown by because there were no real seasonal markers. Friends and family came to visit, and I remember their visits clearly—the conversations, the meals, the walks—but I couldn’t tell you what time of year they came. Everything was warm. Everything looked the same. It’s strange how memory works when there’s nothing external telling it where to land.
From that balcony, I saw more life than anywhere else I’ve lived—including New York City. There was always movement—people crossing paths below, boats idling in the waterway, lights coming on in other buildings as the sun went down. It felt expansive and intimate at the same time, like watching hundreds of small stories unfold every day.
Sunrise over the Atlantic—one of those moments that felt new every morning, even when the days blurred together.
Living there changed how I was paying attention to things. For those of you who’ve read my other books, When the Dead Remember will probably feel different. I say that, and my husband just looks at me and shakes his head—because, really, all of my books have been different. He’s not wrong. But this one does feel like it occupies a slightly different emotional space.
While I was writing it, one thought kept surfacing—not suddenly, but insistently. I’ve been on a spiritual journey since my late twenties, but this was something I hadn’t seen quite so clearly before: none of us is perfect. We all have things we’re working through. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. And as much as we try to separate ourselves—to define ourselves by what makes us different—we’re far more alike than we tend to admit.
That idea stayed with me.
Because of my husband’s job, we’ve lived in a lot of places over the years. In more than thirty-five years together, we’ve moved across Florida, spent time in Alabama, lived many years in Tennessee, and had the opportunity to live in both New York City and Washington, D.C. That kind of life unsettles some people, but I grew up moving and have always enjoyed the challenge of learning a new place.
Still, West Palm Beach was my favorite. By far.
The view after dark. Still. Watchful. Full of motion if you paid attention.
And then there was my dog, Lizzy. She was part of those days, too.
If routines anchored my days, she was the one who quietly insisted we slow down enough to notice them.
Lizzy, always ready to pause mid-walk and enjoy the moment. She reminded me daily to slow down.
And oh, the dogs. Everybody in downtown West Palm Beach seemed to have one. The park across the street from our building became a social hub—for people and pets alike. It truly was a thing. I’ve never seen so many dogs in one place, and I can confidently say I saw more pet strollers there in six years than I will probably see anywhere else in my lifetime.
Living there felt full—of motion, of warmth, of small daily rituals. It’s a place that makes time feel both expansive and slippery, and it changed the way I think about memory in ways I didn’t fully understand until much later.
Those six years are still with me.
And that view, always will be.