On Homesickness

The thing is, I’ve stayed in an Italian villa and walked Copacabana beach. I’ve sipped piña coladas with my toes in crystal clear Caribbean water. I’ve skied powdery peaks.

And even yet, the most divine place on earth is my parents’ house in the summer, with Dad sipping a cold beer on the back porch. Their screen turns into a makeshift revolving door as the dogs and the grandkids run in and out. Someone’s playlist is on the speakers. The pizza’s almost ready and there’s chocolate extreme ice cream in the deep freeze for later. My brothers poke fun at each other, and my sister’s laugh is the best thing I’ve heard all week. Mom’s hugs are cozier than I remembered. I’ve missed them.

I miss them.