Nostalgia seems to hang in the air as thick as the humidity.
I took a walk after supper last night. When I was 10 or 11 it would have been a bike ride on the old race path and extra fast past the old bee tree. Honey bees and sometimes some skinned knees.
I might stop and sit on the old concrete steps with my Aunt Rose or on the back porch. Or I might pedal by with just a wave. There was never a plan or destination. Just heat and free time. And bicycles and bare feet.
Last night it was just a simple walk in the field. My field. With the honeysuckle and blackberries. With the daisies.
They remember too.