I miss the sea gulls and crows squawking territorially over the trash.
I miss the mudroom tile, the pilot's stutter on the gas stove, the instant fireplace where wet gloves and hats used to hang.
I miss the park down the street, the one with the "adventure trail" that looped a special way home.
I miss the halfway point in my old running route, the shore, the way the snow melted before it reached the tide.
I miss the faces, the hearts. I didn't think I knew them long enough to miss them this much.
I miss the back bay, the home team, the big boot, the blueberries, the beach.
I miss the marsh, the snowy egret, the way the reeds and sun would dance every day on my way to school.
I miss the teachers, the sigh of relief I felt when I walked past the walls plastered in preschool art, like somehow this parenting, this teaching, this loving them to pieces wasn't all on me. I miss that village.
I even miss the town hall, how tiny it was, how easy to get a license plate or buy a beach pass.
I didn't think it was mine long enough to miss it this much.
I was wrong.
I miss it.
Written in response to The Gypsy Mama's five-minute writing prompt.
Photo credit: My friend Alexis, during her last visit with me in Maine.