Regretfully, we loaded June in our van last weekend and traveled home. How happy we had been in Florida during our working vacation in Pensacola. Now, home and almost settled back into our normal life, it is safe to say we miss the southern breeze in the morning. I walk June around our neighborhood in the afternoon, circling around our yellow house, searching for signs of coastal living I know do not grow here, aching for the place we left behind. How can the neighborhood we left behind feel so much like home, but our actual one feel like a broken link? We miss the southern breeze in the afternoon, too.
The palm trees linger heavy in our memories, along with our sandy feet, the heat from the sun hanging above us, charred tuna on the grill, Sean’s short afternoon breaks to stand with us in the backyard, evenings spent at the beach with June trying to eat the entire shoreline and us frantically swatting the sand from her mouth, a blanket spread outside where June and I read books, the splashes from June’s pool landing promptly on my legs, the sounds of the neighbor’s lawnmower cutting through the evening air, the whistle of the train just three blocks away, the green of plants, the blossoming of life around us, the blossoming of our own beings, too.
It is easy to miss the world you leave behind sometimes. We cling to the memories and hope for return. Living North can be tough, we’re ready to head south down 65 again.