173. and you told me not to follow.


A week ago, I stopped dead. I was blown over by the little scrap of rosebush I had seen peeking up the day before. It was a foot taller, hopeful and determined to bud any day now. I stopped, looked up. There was the golden shiny leaves, on branches that were dead not days before. I breathed in and summer had come, skipping past a week-long spring, determined to get away from winter.

The thing that struck me wasn’t the shortlived glorious spring. It was the summer-smell. Spring had had a full season (well, full for us) for the past few years. It was only just beginning to get into summer by June. Now? Summer moved quickly, claiming a spot and ousting the abused spring. Flowers bud and fell within days from heat.

The scent, the weight of the air, was new.

I haven’t been home to smell summer in three years.

It is gloriously strange.

The nights are golden-blue, tinges of green and light and sultry warm air rushing past fingertips, a hint of musky sweet green growing life, a night of wonderful breezes, respite from the too-hot days.

I won’t be living outdoors this summer. It comes as an almost physical blow. For three years, summers meant cool shade, New England breezy-valley stony-outcrops and music in the air, thunderstorms and sweltering days, hours of drizzling rain with a ton of people breathing softly as the rain invites one into the sounds, the symphony. Now? I live inside. I don’t want to go out – it is hot and smells of asphalt no greenwetlushmusic. There are cars that pass by all the walking route, a construction crew and endless dogwalkers by the bridge. It is less solitary and more – even if there are people there, it is alone with strangers. The summers I loved were crowded with people and joy and conversation and.

Fuck. I miss Buck’s Rock. I miss everyone. I love these people here, but they’re not there.  I can has summers back?


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