I meant to write this morning – fiction – but am instead deep in the throes of wishing to be somewhere warm. So rather than sheer creativity, I instead found myself looking at plane tickets and Airbnbs, and remembering places I have loved.
Barcelona, with air so ready to dissolve thoughts of things that might have been, is at the top of my mind.
Hawaii, with its dense jungle-forests, plants greener and more fuchsia than anywhere else I’ve been, would also be wonderful.
Sometimes I forget to put Galveston into this category, just because I know it so well, but it belongs there too, the humidity curling my concerns away.
I don’t think of myself as someone who craves the beach. Perhaps, though, it’s only human to wish for such things, when March has stretched long, when the temperature dances briefly again towards the chill of winter, when June – really now, so close – seems like a temptress we’ll never reach.
It is coming, though, I remind myself. Summer is out there, calling.