This summer, I am
that little kid who will only go inside if his parents call his name down the
block and all the streetlights come on and he has exhausted his last appeal.
I turn from Dracula to George Hamilton. Skin once china white from hunkering indoors in a summer of discontent has gone atypically tan as I hang onto a pool noodle and look at the clouds. I have spent an entire summer lingering outside, telling myself I will go inside when the next cumulonimbus moves to the horizon only to linger until the next front goes by.
I turn from Dracula to George Hamilton. Skin once china white from hunkering indoors in a summer of discontent has gone atypically tan as I hang onto a pool noodle and look at the clouds. I have spent an entire summer lingering outside, telling myself I will go inside when the next cumulonimbus moves to the horizon only to linger until the next front goes by.
But I will not go
in. I will soak up as much sun as I can until the breeze hardens and the sun
collapses. I will only end the summer when nature takes its choice from me. Do
not call me to come inside. I cannot hear you from under this sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment