Afterward, the air was clean and cold. The streets ran with rivers of rainwater. And the smell—that impossible, sweet, wet-earth smell—was the smell of being alive.
Summer is the season of three o’clock shadows and six o’clock sun. We played pickup basketball until our legs turned to rubber, the orange ball a sticky blur against the blinding blue sky. The blacktop was hot enough to fry an egg, so we played in bare feet, hopping from foot to foot like we were dancing on coals. When the final, desperate buzzer sounded—Sam’s victory roar echoing off the garage door—we didn’t go inside. We went to the hose. my favourite season summer
The air conditioner was a lie.
“Pool?” Sam asked, shaking his wet hair like a golden retriever. Afterward, the air was clean and cold
Winter is for waiting. Spring is for sneezing. Fall is for homework. But summer? Summer is for being . It’s the season that doesn't care about your shoes or your grades or your alarm clock. It grabs you by the back of the neck and shoves your face into a bowl of ripe strawberries. Summer is the season of three o’clock shadows
I’d walk home, squelching in my sneakers, dripping on the front mat. My mom would just shake her head, hand me a towel, and point to the bathroom. “You’re crazy,” she’d say. “All of you.”
It hummed and rattled in the window of my bedroom, making all the right noises, but the cool air it promised was a myth—a faint, apologetic whisper against the tropical onslaught outside. I lay on top of my sheets, a sweaty starfish, listening to the cicadas fire up their tiny, frantic engines. It was the first official day of summer vacation, and the world had turned into a green, buzzing, delicious sauna.