This time of year invariably makes me homesick for a tin-roofed house nestled in the hook of Florida's panhandle. It's in this house that I began countless summers and became acquainted with the distinctly Southern mysticism surrounding thunderstorms. Most of this is now steeped in sepia, pushed through warped memories. But nothing makes me miss home quite so much as that feeling of a rolling bank of humidity, hinting at a storm to come. The breeze picks up and the sky adopts a darker shade somewhere between blue and green.
It's the closest thing to time travel I've ever experienced. With each clap of thunder and imminent downpour I'm reminded of running back from the beach, clutching towels, hoopin' and hollering with the rest of my family. But then we'd finally reach the refuge of the carport and looking up pay our respects in a quietly understood moment.
If I were to distill a concentrate of nostalgia it would most likely present itself as a mix of this afternoon gauntlet and the feeling of waking up in the middle of the night to a storm that feels as though it's wrapped itself around every wall of the house. Larger than life, swirling the salty air.
In an attempt to conjure this concentrate, I made a playlist that mimics scanning through an old AM radio. Songs swallowed in static, brief moments of clarity.
Air, thick like honey
Your window’s cracked now
We drift in the night