Summer feels nostalgic, sweet, heartbreaking as it happens; this season feels the most fleeting and the most precious.
There are the hours spent on the docks at noon, with the cold bay water sparkling. Ripe peaches twisted off the highest branches, their skin still warm, flushed pink and yellow and orange. The sun is white, white, white, and beats a gentle tattoo against my closed eyes.
In the early morning, there are trail runs through the cool forest. Bay jumps with the sweat still lingering on your skin. The salty bite of the sea mixes with the stagnant, mineral green scent of lake water.
Bare legs, dirty feet, tanned skin. Attempting hand- and head-stands, and learning how to stand on each other’s shoulders. We walk on the shoulder of the road, gravel and dry earth crunching under our feet, and the miles hike up and down hills. Picking blackberries, running late, and losing track of time.
It’s a season of easy embraces, simple and meaningful friendships, burning away fears, and spraining ankles. The golden grass is overgrown, burnt, and the most comfortable bed. The bay water, turquoise and alluring, looks deceptively warm.
Lingering conversations with friends, perched in old tree branches that reach and stretch for the water. The sun sets, leaving behind a bruised lavender sky that slowly fades to black. These summer evenings are warm, and someone plays the guitar.
Already, I’m thinking about next summer, about when warmth will visit again, about travels with these friends. Imagining bright colours and spices, the pliable leather of passports, the press of visa stamps, red dirt and cobblestones under my feet, warm nights roaming old thriving cities, the heavy card stock of plane tickets.
It’s the last summer at home for me, and I’m ready to leave. This season feels the most fleeting, and its events have already taken on the sepia tones of old memories.