There is a thickness to the air, so familiar from when I last felt it at 8, when it pressed itself to my face and I almost held it. Now it’s here outside the airport, near the shuttle bus, between me and the palm trees. I try to unwrap it as I wait, but there’s no taking it off. It could rain at any time, but I know it won’t. I try to breathe deeply but my lungs are hard to inflate. The moisture hangs invisible, welcoming me back, carried in this famous sunshine, laughing that I’m not wearing shorts.