15.05 The Second Summer
A little creative writing piece I wrote this morning...
This is the second summer. The second summer without my second home. No more damp sweatpants from the dew picked up on walks from Cottage to Lodge. No more stretch circles or Sacagawea’s. No more wall talks and soaked-swamp-asses waffled from rackets, and the dew that remains. No more Boomer rap or Mega Ball in the Zoo. No more leap-frogs and sprints to Hill House, which no one ever liked; what I'd do to race up that highland again. No more milk-chugging contests at dinner or spontaneous instrumental banging of fists and forks that command the presence of the chef behind ricocheting doors. No more parties in the kitchen — listening solely to Macklemore. No more dance parties in the pouring rain. No more swim trips and sketchy rides in vans that make their own fate. No more anticipation for Mega Day. No more first-kiss fantasies, late-night sneak-outs, and bonfire spooning sessions. No more Garden Shed shower parties when the water well runs low.
This is the second summer where I’ll be without my second family; the people who raised me in those warmer days and grew up with me; enclosed in our own perfect world where gossip was told on a trampoline that had no weight limit; teaching and being taught how to trade through clothing swaps and care package roulette; creating crowns from flowers, and games around the pond of leeches; entertained by each other’s stories and presence, no phones in sight and no desire to find them.
This is the second summer without Christmas. No more final song; the lights are on, as the out-of-rhythm kick-line sways in waves until the chorus comes; the disassembling circle joins together in a tight ball, and pointer finger reaches to the ceiling; The Black Eyed Peas Where Is The Love fades out, and the night ends.
