I sat on the hot sand, the sun beating down ruthlessly on my back like it was an Egyptian palace guard and, instead of leather and metal, it’s own hot, fiery tendrils were it’s way of punishment. I look out at the dark brown bay, a vast stretch of water that reflected the blueness of the sky; it gave bay the guise of a dark blue ocean, going on for miles. As a bead of sweat ran down my neck, I slipped into the cool, murky waters of the bay. It is not the beautiful, turquoise water of Florida, but Mississippi has been my quiet escape for many years. I began to relax, sinking deeper into the sand, my hands gathering handfuls of the stuff underneath the water until my hands hit cool, Mississippi mud. I heard a voice in the distance; my mother called to me from the house. My aunt’s house was not a grand beach house like the ones we passed on our ride here, nor was it shabby or drab. The large wooden house was painted dark green and white; there were no windows on the porch, only screens to keep the bugs away. I sniffed the air: it smelled of salt and the boiled crab that my family had cooked this afternoon. I felt lucky to be able to call this place a home, the house that was fifty feet from paradise.