Bekka Palmer

Bekka Palmer
I often think about a certain feeling I once had. It happened in high school. It was late spring: the first night of the year you could stay out late without feeling a chill. Suburbia’s concrete driveways held onto the warmth from the sunshine well into evening. I had recently developed a crush on a boy and I was sitting on his driveway at sunset. I felt the warmth of the concrete permeating through my legs and the warmth of a new crush exploding from my heart. There should be a word for that feeling, because I long to feel this way again more days than not. And I am almost certain others have experienced this feeling too. Some days this feeling washes over me so suddenly and completely. I think it would be worthwhile to spend the rest of my life chasing it.

I often think about a certain feeling I once had.

It happened in high school. It was late spring: the first night of the year you could stay out late without feeling a chill. Suburbia’s concrete driveways held onto the warmth from the sunshine well into evening. I had recently developed a crush on a boy and I was sitting on his driveway at sunset. I felt the warmth of the concrete permeating through my legs and the warmth of a new crush exploding from my heart.

There should be a word for that feeling, because I long to feel this way again more days than not. And I am almost certain others have experienced this feeling too.

Some days this feeling washes over me so suddenly and completely. I think it would be worthwhile to spend the rest of my life chasing it.