Summertime is when I miss home the most.
Not the idea of home.
The real thing.
Texas heat so thick it wrapped around you like a second skin.
Sand stuck to the bottoms of my feet.
Country music crackling through a cheap speaker somewhere down the beach.
Four-wheelers kicking up dirt while somebody laughed loud enough for everybody to hear.
I miss running barefoot through mud puddles in cut-off shorts and sleeveless shirts, not caring how dirty I got because there was always a hose somewhere and tomorrow was just another day to do it all over again.
I miss hair bleached almost white by the sun, curls tangled from saltwater and wind, skin carrying the proof of every hour spent outside.
I miss the smell of bug spray mixing with sunscreen.
Tanning oil.
Charcoal grills.
The Gulf air.
Fresh bait.
A fishing line cutting through the water while I stood waist-deep waiting for the pole to bend.
I miss playing jellyfish tag with my cousins, chasing those little glowing lights through the water like we had all the time in the world and none of us would ever grow up.
I miss barbecue on paper plates.
Sandwiches eaten with sandy hands.
Boogie boards.
Sunburns.
Mosquito bites.
I miss coming home exhausted, taking a cold shower on skin that had spent all day baking in the heat, then sitting by a fire with a warm meal while the mosquitoes treated everybody equally.
Most of all, I miss the feeling.
The feeling that summer would never end.
The feeling that everybody I loved was still right there.
The feeling that home wasn’t something you could lose.
Because now, every summer, the heat comes back.
The memories come back.
The smell comes back.
But home doesn’t.
And that’s what I miss the most.
