The first light doesn’t just rise — it spills. Like honey from the gods, it seeps through my linen drapes, warm and peach-toned, kissing my bare shoulder and tracing gold down the soft swell of my hip. The ceiling fan spins like a slow blessing overhead, stirring thick, salt-heavy air laced with hibiscus — the island’s final gift to me. A perfume older than memory. The breath of women who came before.

I lie still for a moment, wrapped in the island’s arms one last time, like a lover I never meant to leave.

Then, with slow reverence, I rise. My skin glows — sun-kissed, sea-slicked, still dewy with the echoes of midnight waves. I dress in coconut cream cotton, no armor, no pretense — just the sacred press of fabric and breeze against bare skin. My sandals dangle from my fingers, but I step out barefoot. The earth deserves that intimacy.

The road to Cruz Bay stretches before me like a dream dipped in mango light. Children laugh in the distance. A woman braids hair on her stoop, her fingers quick as prayer. A man nods from under his straw hat, balancing melons like offerings. The air is thick with frying dough and memory. My driver says nothing, but his silence is soulful. The hum of the car and the sea wind against my hand is a lullaby. I close my eyes and let the island sing.

On the ferry to St. Thomas, I lean over the railing, chin lifted to the sky. My hair dances wild in the wind. Salt mist hits my lips — a baptism. The sun, the sea, the ache of parting — it’s all there, familiar and fierce.

At the airport, time forgets itself. I wander, fingers brushing wood carved by calloused hands. My eyes drink in coral silks, lime sarongs, sun-worn smiles. It feels like the ancestors are waving goodbye and whispering, “Take us with you.”

Then the scent pulls me. Not gently — it yanks at my soul. Butter. Pepper. Smoke. Heat. I follow it to a dim-lit haven tucked near the gates — The Hibiscus Café. I sink into a chair like a woman returning to her roots.

What comes is holy.

An omelet, molten with cheese and greens, hits my tongue like revelation. Johnny cakes flake apart in my hands — sunrise in pastry form. I moan, eyes closed. Butter and honey drip down my fingers, and I do not wipe it away. I lick them slow. I taste everything. Mango juice rolls down my wrist. I catch it with my tongue and laugh, soft and full.

Even here — even now — the island gives.

Later, in a quiet corner, I cradle a cup of dark roast. Brown sugar and cream swirl like ocean spirits. My thighs stick to the chair. I don’t mind. My pulse has slowed, my breath deepened. My soul is steeped in something ancient.

Boarding is called. I move slow, like leaving church.

As I climb the steps, I place my hand on the cold metal hull of the plane. A soft thank you. A vow whispered not just to the island, but to myself.

From the window, St. John fades into the blue, a secret curled beneath seafoam and sun. My lips taste of salt and mango. My body hums with warmth and memory.

And though I fly away, I do not leave.

The island is in me now — in the rhythm of my walk, the softness of my gaze, the echo of waves in my chest. In the way I will always reach for beauty, barefoot and unafraid.

I land to stillness. The air is cool, sterile. The bed is familiar, but it doesn’t hold me the way the island did. Still — I’m not the same.

I pour a glass of wine, sit on the balcony of my beach townhouse, and let my bones hum with leftover magic. I press my feet to the floor, as if the island might rise through it somehow.

St. John wasn’t a destination.

She was an initiation.

A flavor I’ll never stop tasting.