by E.M.Miles, 7th
You fell in love with those days. Those long, endless summer days when the air was hot and heavy and smelled like honey and flowers and fat bees bumbled everywhere and the creeks giggled and the rivers laughed and the lakes sat as still as time and as smooth as glass, not a ripple in sight. Those days that were full of swimming in the cool rivers and icy glasses of lemonade and reading comic books and old romance novels that were scattered on the porch and swinging in the creaky wooden swing in the late afternoon while you waited for dinner, which always came with much gaiety and laughter outside on the picnic table.
And who could forget those summer evenings where you caught fireflies in jars (but always let them go), and ran around doing cart wheels on the grass while the adults watched and spoke about things as quietly as they could because they didn't want you to hear, but it didn't matter because you weren't listening because who cared about grown-up problems when it was summer and you felt like you owned the world. And you loved that feeling of sinking down on to your soft bed after a long, full day, with the sweet and precious pleasure of knowing that you didn’t have to wake up to a blaring alarm clock at 6 tomorrow, that you could sleep as late as you wanted. You loved that feeling just as much as you loved falling asleep wondering if the sun really did go down at night, because it was there when you woke up and there when you went to sleep.
Yes, summer was your season, without a doubt. You always seemed to glow the brightest in summer. Your brown hair was suddenly streaked with blonde. Your skin darkened, and you loved to press your bare arm to your pale, flat belly and exclaim, “look how tan I am!” New freckles bloomed across your cheeks like the flowers in the meadow. (Your freckles were never orange, by the way. They were always a soft, sweet brown, only a shade lighter than your eyes.) In fact, your whole demeanor was flower-like. It was as if, during all the other seasons, you were waiting, arranging your petals, getting ready. Then, in the summer, you uncurled, you spread your petals in a burst of new colors and light and beauty.
In other words, you bloomed. And everyone thought you were so pretty, so full of light and happiness.
Everyone loved you.
Everyone but me.
Oakland | East Bay, CA