Miami Summers

A drop of sweat dripped down my neck before I even exited the air conditioning. Once the sliding glass door opened, the barrage of humidity caught in my throat and made it hard for me to breathe. A single step outside the airport terminal was enough to remind me why I left this city in the first place.

Miami in August was not kind.

When I first left my hometown my hands peeled. The flakes falling from my palms caused my head to rush with all sorts of ideas – illnesses, allergies, maybe even a curse.

It took a month for me to realize that my body missed the humidity. It had grown accustomed to the wet heat I now resent. Without it, my skin sang a parched lament in the form of peeling hands. The cracks on my legs and itch along the creases and folds of my body soon followed.

I was a Miami baby down to the cells of my skin, but still the humidity caught in my throat and suffocated me whenever I returned.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “In the Summertime.”