We rented the same place we’ve rented for the last 5 out of 6 years (we missed 2017). We visited the same amusement park, the same mini golf stand, the same dune ride company. We jumped in the waves. We made a pact to go in and under no matter how cold and on days when the waves weren’t too high we swam out to sandbar whooping at how alive and frozen we felt. We visited with people we love, but not all of them, and often too briefly.
I’m happy to be home, surrounded by my own things, going to bed in my own bed, but tomorrow my dad won’t be stopping by with a ridiculous number of donuts and juice. I won’t be listening to my grandma share her stories and wisdom while eating peanut butter cookies that remind me of making them with her as a child. I won’t be making squiggly drip sandcastles or swimming out to sandbars.
I am home, but missing home.
And already looking forward to next year.
