Almost There
The road curls like a lazy ribbon toward the sea.
The music hums low, windows down, my hand slicing the wind like I’m baptizing myself in motion.
And then it hits me—
That smell.
Honeysuckle and salt water.
Sweet and sharp.
Like sugar on the edge of a blade.
Like the promise of something sacred just out of sight.
It always hits before I can see the ocean.
The scent remembers before my eyes do.
It wraps around me, soft and sticky, whispers, “You’re almost home.”
The air thickens. Not heavy—holy.
It tastes like summer and survival.
Like barefoot afternoons.
Like kisses that never needed explaining.
Like the version of me that used to believe in forever without apologizing for it.
And then, just over the hill, there it is...
The horizon, split in light.
The sea, wild and waiting.
The wind carries salt across my lips like a lover’s fingertips, and I smile before I even realize I’m doing it.
Not because I found something new—
But because I remembered what was always mine.
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