I used to go to these old sites, where time tries to hide the past with shrubbery. I would stand there and close my eyes, that to relive history, just so I can see first hand what really happened. The British, the Spanish, the French. The Arawaks, the Caribs, the slaves. Is history as it was written, as we see it the same from them, if only I could see it in their eyes, feel their emotions. I would stand there, feel the Trade Winds brush against my face. Like the ghosts of the past touching me, sending chill down my back. I opened my eyes as a plane flew overhead, and for a moment I am caught in two different centuries, and for a second I had to decide where I want to me.