It’s too cold for late March in Tampa.
I want to be hot. Not in a climate change kinda way (zero waste / vegan, please). I want my skin exposed to warmth wrapping around me. I want the privilege of knowing that whatever space I put myself in can be cooled when I feel like it.
I concede that layers are often more stylish than a sleeveless dress or a tank top with shorts. But I don’t enjoy big sweaters, giant shirts, or anything that makes me feel like I’m trapped inside fabric just to stay warm when all I really need is
the sun.
I’ve been a summer baby since we lived in PA. I didn’t detest the fall or winter and I wasn’t immune to the beauty of the flowering dogwood tree in our backyard. But summer and the sound of cicadas was (and still is) holy to me. It signified backyard barbecues and iced teas, pretending I was a mermaid swimming away from my Aunt as Ursula, doing water aerobics with my Grandmom Ag, watching my Uncle Ron dive, and listening to my mom play the entirety of Ten Summoner’s Tales on repeat from our tall rec room windows. It meant waiting for my dad to do a cannonball, only to settle in and use the force of his arms (complete with “whomp” sound effects) to turn the pool into a WAVE POOL. A dream.
It meant the smell of chlorine on tanned skin with white toes and the kind of exhaustion that made you settle in later to watch a movie in complete and beautiful stillness. Your hair still wet, fingers still pruned.
I don’t think summer means the same thing now as it did then. But I still find ways to recreate it to bring me back to that stillness.
summer baby & a fall (sometimes spring?) baby
aka me & sam.
(Daily Writing 020)
Thoughts?