Summer is a season I’ve always loved. Its a season that comes halfway into a lived year. It’s full of expectation – like ripe blueberries just about to burst and then bursting all over everything leaving stains of happiness or, like sweet cherries, whose bing in your mouth is like soft textured silk.
Summer is a season I’ve known every year of my life. It’s an increment of memories; water hoses running wild, blades of glasses glistening to another kind of sunshine – summer sunshine – long dates at the museum, vintage Igloo containers adorned with decades old stickers that have witnessed its opening more than the ants that will later find their way in to swim into the melted ice pool from a long day of adventure and looking up into a blue sky of minimal clouds that you swear are shaped into characters.
Summer is where my imagination always came out to play and win. I thank my parents for creating in me a habit of being a culture seeker, an explorer of ideas and a person that loves to be, in existence. Culture is a habit so fundamental to who I am, if you were able to read the strands of DNA, I am sure you’ll find it there in its instructive molecules.
As another summer blooms and burns down the runway of a daily fleeting capsule of daylight hours, I am excited to make lefts where I should have went right; stay longer when I should leave, ask another question, after those allotted have been asked, answered my own hmmmm’s, go, without having a why, feel because it’s right, loiter where pigeons find bread, stumble upon conversations, be grounded in nomadic wanderings and drink coffee. My coffee consumption in the summer goes all the way up. Here’s to summer, to holding space for the stories that move me, for the stories that will demand that I add them them to the canon of memories for the season that I’ll always love.