reminiscing on summer days by the stream. i would love to spend another stretched evening in that field.
I miss the green washroom at my grandparents’ house. I miss being called inside as dusk settled, the midges nipping at our skin, leaving tiny red bumps behind in the freckles. I miss my childhood.
I remember not knowing how to tell time, relying on my older brother to read the glowing blue digits on the Sky Box. Maybe losing track of hours and days—never knowing where one ended and another began—made summer stretch wider, the days moving slower, unhurried by knowledge. I miss that naïveté.
I lived at my grandparents’ house for a while when I was young. I don’t know for how long, but I remember a summer there, asking my mother why we were going to bed while the sun was still out.
“That’s summer,” she’d say, and the curtains were drawn with a bony clang of white plastic hooks.
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