We are swooshing through summer, and burning a threadbare path to Woods Hole. Back to back to back trips. In Rhode Island for three days, then back again to the Vineyard. Every time we get in the car now Henry asks if we are going to the Steamship, then cries if we don’t. I am pretty sure I have left all my favorite things tucked into the bottom of a chest of drawers on Chappy.

We made an extra long trek last weekend from MV to NYC to MV to watch my younger brother get married. I cannot get rid of the aching tug in my heart. As if someone’s wrapped it round and round with a long scarlet cord, and left a streaming trail down I-95 to the ones I love.

Every July we teeter the fine line between too much travel and not enough. Try to sort through the jumble of where and what we call our summertime home. All I know is it feels best when we are piled in the truck, pushing into the afternoon sun, headed to wherever our family is.