Here’s a summer, passing by, whispering you don’t need permission to daydream but here it is in my ears.
Allow me to daydream of the summer mornings, clad in somewhat identical clothes, a pair of twins fought over a book. Of the orange popsicles they made, impatience leading to consuming these popsicles before they were frozen right to the centre. Teeth stained orange, large pink mouths grinning at each other. Laughter that was never too loud for anyone. Of afternoons in a garage surrounded by trees, finding new leaves and insects. The books that were read and reread that season, three minds under the spell of the same words, losing themselves in a world of their own.
The summer of the white dress. Not a coincidence that this was also the summer of the great sunburn. Of burning, peeling, and diving back into the unending cycle of our summers. The summer that witnessed the end of something larger, something we had considered unbreakable until that point. Sunburns last longer than certain relationships or so it was learnt that summer.
Allow me to think of the time spent admiring orange summer sunsets from the terrace, watching your skin change colour with the sun’s movement, as if it was vying to become one with the sky. Of another summer, an afternoon this time, of watching the gold rays fall on the skin of the boy you are in love with, disbelief settling for a moment or two that he and you exist in this world of chaos. Of multiple summers spent with him, of the ones you will.
And the summer spent in a new room with a new old bookshelf. The discovery of colours, of translating thoughts into images on paper. Wondering what the next summer would be like. Would it allow you time by yourself? Would you be in your room, again, or in another room in another city? How do summers look like in other cities? What does it feel like, to belong to the summer of another city?
Of course, the summers of the past also were also summers spent in another town. A place where children your age ate flowers. Such a strange thing to do, you thought. Who was the one to introduce them to this habit? Or do you think this was what their foraging looks like? Not to see and write but to see and taste? All foraging is done through different senses, maybe this was theirs.
Of a summer afternoon, walking hand in hand in the part of the city that feels different, looks different, feels more summer-y. Of being in bed, exhausted of kissing but still wanting more. Kisses do that to you. That summer never came to an end maybe because it’s forever summer when you are in love. Or maybe because it’s forever summer with him.
And there was the summer you wish you could erase. The summer of possibility shape-shifting into a summer of tears in less than ten days. How is it possible, you asked the god you didn’t then believe in, that life is lost during the season of promise? How does one forget a summer unlike any other summer?
And then there’s the summer of the present.
That’s it. It’s here. I am here. In a strange way, it feels as if either the summer lives one moment or I do. We never exist in the same place, at the same time.
And what of the summers of the future?
Allow me to daydream once again, I will pick bits and pieces of summers of the past and carve out a perfect summer for myself.
A summer morning, it’s almost noon, and you are rising out of your bed. Or you try to but a book stops you. You read the same words of your childhood, think of the voices and tastes of your childhood. Of tears shed, of the number of laps taken in the pool, of the number of scars on your body.
Think of summer nights that will be spent in the company of a boy who feels and looks like summer, represents everything summer means in your heart. Of the one you’ve spent quite a few summers with but each summer feels different. What still remains the same is how golden his skin looks when it comes under the sun. And the kisses remain the same. How you will tell him of your summers spent in the pool, of the possibility of creating a similar summer with him. Think of how dizzying a summer of kisses and diving could be.
Allow me to think that a pair of twins will have the chance to live each summer together. Of afternoons perched on new and old bookshelves, with books from their past summers. Of merging her details and my colours to create the worlds we escaped to each summer. What does summer mean to those who have not shared a womb with someone? Does the sunlight look the same to them? Who do they share their childhood solitude with?
There will be a summer that will pass by, whispering no, you don’t have permission to daydream this time in my ears.
There will be summers in other cities. Of drinking at lunch. Of mornings at the beach followed by a family lunch where everyone feels the necessity to speak at the same time. Of being in the pool all morning until noon, reminding you of the soft white dress you wore as a child. Of laying in parks, reading until it’s time to divert your attention to the orange summer sunset. There will come a summer you lose someone else, bringing memories of another one you lived when you were young. Now there will be two summers unlike any other.
And there will be an endless summer. Of discovering the meaning of love and why it’s necessary for you to experience loss. It will be the summer of answers, questions, and orange sunsets.
