I don’t like this much. It’s not right. It’s not…enough. But then, can any combination of words ever be enough to capture something so intangible? It needs to be re-written.
There’s something about summer that catches. Something that takes ahold of a heart and never lets go. Something that fills to overflowing, runs over in wonder.
Not the hot sunny days, the cookouts on the lake, the vacations to the coast. Not the ice cream and fireworks and long days of doing nothing and everything at once. Not the clear blue of a sky burnished bright by sun. Not those things. Oh, they’re nice too. But they aren’t what grabs hold. They aren’t what creates memories that live in a heart for years on years, drenching anew with awe at every remembering. They aren’t what captivates and leaves spellbound, staring, drinking in summer.
The days don’t last forever. Each is forgotten as soon as it ends, fading photographs shoved away in dusty albums the only recollection of the hours. The days mean little.
But the nights…the nights are timeless.
The sun setting, casting fire across the mountains and purple and indigo across the clouds. The creek winding through the woods at the bottom of the pasture, humming, more steady than ocean waves and just as thrilling. The sound of a thousand crickets playing soft, speaking of home. The mountains, cloaked in hazy summer night, mysterious, enthralling, and oh, so high. The air…
Cool across bare arms, slipping breeze-fingers through long hair, stirring through dewy grass under foot. It comes in waves, slow and light, from mountaintops far away, speaking of fresh-mown hay, cool water, tall trees. It breathes of old magic, like the first stirring of rock and root under ground, the first growing of green or turning of the earth. Yet this only deep down, far beneath the surface of misty glory and twilight glow that are now. Transient and nearly invisible, these moments. Yet they linger on to infinity and back, only ever growing more cherished.
For when the sun is gone, time stops. For a few ageless minutes, a glow of light remains in its stead, dimming slowly to the deep blue-black of rest. And it is in these moments that summer is. It is in these moments that everything is, for a few short minutes, really all right. It is in these moments that tomorrow does not matter any more.