I've been living a distant memory for the past three days. The girls and I migrated over to Paso Robles (my former stomping grounds) to stay in a little house in the country. We tootled around town, popped in on daddy at work (frequently), and lounged in Target more than our fair share of time.
After two rambunctious evenings spent in warm summer moonlight, drinking wine and cavorting about the countryside, I awoke on our last day feeling uncomfortable. The novelty of our arrival had long since worn off and I surveyed the expansive view of rolling hills and fruit laden vineyards with discontent. Most people would kill for this view, what is wrong with me?
I missed my home. I missed the smell of the ocean in the morning. I missed the newspaper in my driveway. I missed my coffee mugs and my silverware. I missed my closet and my sofa.
I realized how much I love my house. It's location, the color of the walls in my bedroom.
So we headed home with smiles on our faces (even when we disappeared into the fog bank).
The comfort of home is irreplaceable. And apparently, home is the beach for me right now.

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