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I hate that my grandma sold our beach house. Well, her beach house, but me and my cousins went there all the time. I miss the rugs and the light through the windows and the beach and the feel of the sandy pavement underneath your feet as you walked there. I miss the shells on the mantelpiece and the big woven basket and the upstairs carpet. I miss the deer that sometimes ran into our backyard and stood there, motionless, waiting. I miss the special "twa tweet tweet doo doo" call of the birds which I have never heard anywhere else since then. I miss the yellow, hard, cool tiles in the kitchen. I miss the smell above all. It smelled like sand and parsley and mint (not like the sweet store bought mints, the actual plant, with the bitter part at the end) and shells and suntan lotion and hyacinths and honeysuckle. I miss the honeysuckle. How odd it that? It's such a small thing, but right now I would give anything for it. It's the small things that you miss. Mar 16 8:43 PM MST