Kill Devil Hills, Winter It's not about me. It's about porch furniture on concrete porches, overlooking a pool or two, closed for the season but holding tight to memories of swimsuit-clad women lounging here long before I was born. It's about an ice machine that struggles onward, dedicated to the concept that my bourbon is only one of many needs for one of many chills, in spite of February. It's about a cold and deserted evening, no moon, and more stars than you'd've thought possible. It's about everyone who's ever gotten up for whatever middle-of-the-night reason, stumbled out their door to find that angry-mom ocean just a few steps away. It's about the dignity that, no matter who I might have brought back to cabin number five's tired mattress from whichever winter bar that I found both open and comforting, I would always be welcome. It's about the place I need to be.