the smell of SPF 15

The second I got home this afternoon, I rushed upstairs for my bathing suit and a beach towel. I put ice water in my giant coffee mug, grabbed a book, and hit my brand new patio. I spent two glorious hours stretched out in the sun and the 95 degree heat.

Finally succumbing to the nap that had been nipping at my heels all day, I put my head down on the towel and turned my face to the sun. The humidity, the blazing heat, the summer haze, the sweat rolling down my back and making me itch brought Europe back. I remembered laying exactly like this on a rooftop in Sorrento, poolside in Nice, on my balcony in Barcelona. I missed it so much. I wanted to hear mopeds and strange languages, I wanted to be surrounded by mountains and beach instead of suburbia. I would have given anything just to smell it again, the baking asphalt, the cigarette smoke, the cooking food.

I turned my head to face away from the sun. My dog was passed out in the shade a few feet from me. I listened to the kid neighboors playing with their german shepard a few doors down. Another neighboor was mowing his lawn, and the droning hum and smell of freshly-cut grass was soothing and comfortable. I watched the wind play with the new tree leaves through the first summer haze of the year. Little helicopters were raining down around my head. I could hear my brother and my dad moving around inside of the house. And I realized that someday, probably someday soon, I would miss this, too.