Jul
2
I miss mornings like this.
Every summer and Easter, and sometimes Christmas, we would visit my grandpa’s farm in Florida. I’d wake up (or would be woken up) early and walk through the morning fog listening to the hum of the locusts. The grass was still wet with dew, the morning still young.
I lived outside - either on the beach about an hour away or on the farm. It was just a time to be free.
Summers just aren’t like they used to be.
