I keep expecting each cool breeze to carry salt and sting, but there’s no scent.
I can’t see the storm gathering, miles away, over the open bay; there are too many houses here.
My shins are lacking bug bites from humid walks in woods. There are no old forts here to explore, with new graffiti and less structure every year.
There is too much water-pressure in the shower, not enough sand around the drain.
I haven’t tried to run in sand recently, felt vertigo from moving shorelines, or waded through the pulling tide. I haven’t read the memorial stone of the man who drowned near this small island in years.
I don’t smell like sun screen and sweat.
My hair isn’t stiff from sea air.
I’m not a kid anymore.
This isn’t vacation.