The sense of familiarity consumes me as I see the trees for the first time in June, exactly how I left them, faintly tilted as the tallest points curve in creating an isolating canopy along the stretch of road that takes me all the way to the beach house. The sound of the pebbles in the driveway as the car pulls makes the same crinkling noise as they did eight years ago when we arrived for the first time. Although time has passed, the same sense of peace and comfort still remains. Even now, the scent of the salt air makes its way into my wavy hair, covering me with its delicate smell that brings me back to the countless walks to the beach, drives to get Ice Cream, and backyard cookouts. As I step out of the car and feel the crunch of gravel beneath my feet, my troubles disappear in the rearview mirror.

The whales on the walls guide me inside, as the familiar wooden floor creaks below my feet, welcoming me home. The guest book is a tradition, serving as a testament to all who have stayed here with notes of gratitude and anecdotes from their stay, each and every one adding to the love that runs through the walls of beach house. The sounds of laughter echo throughout, we light the fireplace for s'mores and dust off the board games. 

As the years pass me by and people come and go, the beach house has remained a constant in my life. But it’s more than just a place or a home, it’s a feeling. It’s where the nostalgia of the past on the street where I first learned to ride a bike with no training wheels and the excitement of the present knowing summer is around the corner coexist in perfect harmony. Here, memories are not only sacredly remembered, but lived and relived, each visit opening a new chapter in an ever-growing story of love, family, and timeless happiness.