searching for summer

Used to be, the beginning of summer was marked clearly by the ending of the school year. Yearbooks were signed with acronyms ("K.I.T!"), phone numbers were exchanged, and well-intentioned pledges were made to hang out, for sure! The last day of school was useless, of course, but it was a small price to pay for the three-month reward coming to us.

I remember childhood summers earnestly, because the days crackled with excitement and electricity; freedom seemed endless and promising. The days were packed with nothing.

I miss that time in my life. Which is why I spent ninety-percent of my extended Memorial Day weekend hibernating in my dark, cool apartment, doing what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. The plan was to have no plan.

I read two novels, baked a batch of chocolate-chip cookies, took naps, played the piano, watched my Lois & Clark DVD's, lounged on the couch, surfed the web, and painted my nails.

By Monday night, I decided to emerge for a little fresh air. I convinced Aaron to go to the park with me to play tennis (and I use the word 'tennis' loosely here).

We hopped in the Jeep and cruised down to the expressway. The wind whipped the stray hairs of my ponytail into my mouth and eyes, but I didn't shield my face because I liked the carefree, unfettered way it made me feel. Dark was coming fast, and the spindly silhouettes of palm trees were fading against a pinkish orange sky. I inhaled deeply, and the smell of collective barbecue swirled around my nose.

Leaning back, I rested my hands behind my head and closed my eyes.

I realized then that like so much else in life, summer isn't an event to duplicated, but a state of mind to be found.