Late afternoon was for the hammock. The world slowed down. The sun stopped being a tyrant and became a benevolent king, painting everything gold. I’d lie in the swaying shade, a book resting on my chest, the words sometimes blurring as my eyelids drooped. The only sounds were the lazy thwap of a fly against the screen door and my mom humming along to an oldies station from the kitchen.
She was right. Summer is crazy. It’s too hot, too fast, too bright. It ends too soon.
Winter is for waiting. Spring is for sneezing. Fall is for homework. But summer? Summer is for being . It’s the season that doesn't care about your shoes or your grades or your alarm clock. It grabs you by the back of the neck and shoves your face into a bowl of ripe strawberries. my favourite season summer
But lying in bed that night, the window open, listening to the drip-drip-drip from the gutters, I didn’t think about the end. I just pulled the cool, damp sheet over my legs, felt the tired, happy ache in my bones, and smiled.
“Pool,” I confirmed.
That’s when they came out. First one, then ten, then a hundred. Tiny, floating embers of green-gold light. Sam and I would grab a mason jar, punch holes in the lid, and try to catch the impossible. You’d cup your hands around a blinking light, feel the soft tickle of insect legs, and for a second, you’d be holding a star. We’d fill the jar with grass and watch them pulse, a captive constellation, before always, always letting them go. It felt cruel to keep a piece of magic in a jar.
I’d walk home, squelching in my sneakers, dripping on the front mat. My mom would just shake her head, hand me a towel, and point to the bathroom. “You’re crazy,” she’d say. “All of you.” Late afternoon was for the hammock
We sat on the curb as the wind arrived, hot and frantic, flipping the leaves of the maple trees inside out. The first fat, warm raindrops splattered on the asphalt, smelling of dust and ozone. And then the sky tore open.