It is a gorgeous summer day, when that blue sky seems higher than usual, the air is clear and cool, and the sun warm and mellow. I am sitting in my apartment in St Paul, listening to the roar of traffic, staring at my computer and the four walls of my apartment, and I am homesick.
I miss hearing a car coming two miles away, and only hearing a few cars an hour. I miss the silver maples in Grandma's backyard that are dead now. I miss the smell of the swamp halfway down the stretch of road to the old school house, where a million frogs sing, and murky things dwell just waiting for kids to poke at them, or dig up cattails and eat the roots.
I know that this is the time of year that things are getting ripe. Choke Cherries are being picked. The haymow is full of the musty sweet smell of fresh hay, timothy grass, clover, dead daisies. The garden smells like tomato leaves and fresh green beans.
Today mom could be filling the kitchen with the odor of pickles, mustard seed and vinegar and dill and garlic cloves. The feel of the air reminds me of the last scurry of summer vacation, time for bonfires and long days on the beach.
I can imagine the sun warmed coat of our old dog Zoey beneath my hand as I lean out of the old creaky wood yard swing to pat her head. I can taste mom's iced tea made from our own mint, dried from our ceiling and stored in a gallon glass jar through the long winter months.
I miss the smell of my mom's hugs, and the smile in my dad's eyes, and the banter and laughter with my siblings.
I look around my apartment full of *things* and I think of all the *things* I need to do. And I sigh. And look out my window. And fly up north...