Echoes of Summer

Happy late Summer Solstice (last Monday, June 20), and I find it very hard to believe that it’s already nearly July. My summer break actually started at the beginning of May, but so much seems to have happened since then—an international trip that touched three countries in nearly three weeks, my boyfriend’s younger sister’s high school graduation, the first three weeks of my internship with Arte Público Press—and I find myself wondering each day where my time has gone. Where my weekends go, especially; I haven’t been as productive during those days off as I’d like to be, theoretically, but, excuse or not, summer tends to have that effect on people, and even if I were more productive, the days would probably slip by just as quickly, if not even more so.

I hope your summer is just as…adventurous. I don’t want to say “busy.” This time of year is when time feels like it speeds up the most, but also the only time it really slows down…Growing up in south Texas, the summer heat is humid and oppressive, like a wet blanket weighing down, and I remember many afternoons drenched in sunlight, lazy, hot days… My grandparents have an acre and a half of land as their backyard, and when I stayed with them as a kid was the only time I ever spent more time outside than in. I’d romp across the yard with the two Corgis (R.I.P., Buddy and Sasha, my companions), fighting my way through tall squishy grass, underneath the blanket of heat that made me want to lie down in the clover and flowers and take a nap.

At 22 now, the reality of adulthood has set in more firmly, and the magic of summer exists now as little more than an echo in my memory. Melancholy, n’est-ce pas? The difference I notice most clearly lately is that I notice the heat and humidity a lot more than I remember as a child—and it doesn’t make me want to spend any more time outside than necessary, really. Adulthood also makes me realize how much more tired I feel more often, and funnily enough, I read somewhere recently that it’s not that adults have lost the energy they had as kids. It’s that as the kids grow up, they view all of that energy from before as wasted on things that aren’t important in the world of adulthood, like games, and that that energy must now be spent on tasks that are considered important, like laundry and making money. I would say that’s even more melancholy than the lost magic of summer. Even right now, at this very moment, I sit inside typing a blog post, while I could be running around the dark backyard, catching fireflies—if we even had them here, which we don’t. But…like I said, I’m 22, and as an adult…what would be the point now of catching fireflies? “To relive the magic?”

No. Because you can’t relive magical moments, whether you’re four years old, twelve, 22, or 62. But you can always make new ones. Maybe it’s time now to do that.

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