We can feel the humidity as soon as the doors open. It seeps into the jetway and through the empty airport, even though the sun’s been down for hours. We take our coats off as we wait for our bags, the bus, to pay. We are parked by a booted car, temporary tags, blankets covering the backseat.
And then we’re flying down the quiet road, the windows are down, the air smells like honeysuckle, and we don’t have to be anywhere, for anyone.
It feels like the edge of so many summers before, up and down the East Coast. The trees are familiar, the crickets are familiar, the men buying Cokes at the gas station, surely we have seen them before.
At home, we bang upstairs and the house is stuffy, the smell of warping wood and decades that slipped past. We run around, opening windows, turning on fans, finally giving in to the air conditioner.
Summer. I’ve been waiting.
