It never fails. As soon as I get a taste of warm weather, I want to go home.
I want to drive the back roads to Fremont with my windows down, with country music on the radio and a bottle of Diet Pepsi next to me.
I want flip-flops and jeans that are too long.
I want brown skin and messy hair tamed only by a bandana.
I want to smell Heinz ketchup in the air from the factory on 6th and sugar beets from the hill by the fairgrounds.
I want to hear sprint cars revving and beer cans cracking.
I want the cloud spewing from the top of Davis-Besse to be visible on the horizon from Cole Road.
I want to hear my footfalls on the familiar block I run in the sun.
I want Root’s chicken sandwiches and Depot Pizza.
I want to end up at a bonfire and to watch the smoke disappear into the stars.
Mostly, though, I just want to drive.