I fail to recall certain ages or years of my life.
All I recognize is the contrast between school and summer. My school days are far from over, but the ones I brood upon happen to contradict themselves in their own unique way. I’m reminded of the clothes I wore that brought forth my awkward attitude, of the many unsightly haircuts that brought red shame to my face as if they revealed the condition I was in, and of the laughter that never rang true enough to be smiled at in hindsight.
But my summers are different. They have melded together to a point where I couldn’t say what happened in the months after seventh grade. All I know is that I was content. Content and relaxed enough to not fret about what each day was to hold. That’s what I believe true relaxation is: something pliable. Something malleable enough to withstand the pressure in the corner of my mind but strong enough to be stretched to the front at will.
However, it seems to me that this moldable memory has begun to mislead me; summer has changed alongside me—I was too focused on modifying myself to notice.
The singular thing I could anticipate to produce a comfortable sentimental feeling has begun to disappoint me. I no longer attach the same affection to it.
Of course, school provides no change. I can rely on the fact that once mid-August creeps up, I will awake to a cold bed and step into a numbing environment with bitter people, the craving for summer dragging me behind. However quickly the days transpire and summer appears on the horizon, it’s never what I remember.
The cul-de-sac that regularly housed childish chalk portraits and potholes that resulted in countless scooter accidents has now been paved over with a smooth, inky shell that has restrained those memories—no one has bothered to make new ones.
The sunlit days now hold a little less brilliance; the once-endless ocean of powder-blue sky is obscured by murky, harsh clouds. I find myself venturing outside with more than a t-shirt and shorts covering me, as the weather has featured elements eerily similar to a school climate. The trees bloom and flower new leaves overnight leaving me choking on breaths that never feel natural or full.
I’m not exactly sure of what I’m hoping to feel differently.
The song of a bird is an unmatched melody to wake to in the morning, but certain aspects become subdued when unattended by the hysterics of my neighborhood friends. I miss not having to worry about befriending school peers because I always had a whole family in my backyard; I miss being clueless as to how my evening was to pan out with an assortment of competitive games with equally competitive people.
The cul-de-sac that regularly housed childish chalk portraits and potholes that resulted in countless scooter accidents has now been paved over with a smooth, inky shell that has restrained those memories—no one has bothered to make new ones.
I miss when the sun stayed suspended in the sky as long as we were outside, and I woke up to new scars and bruises each morning signifying my depiction of truly being alive.
I miss when summer felt like that, and although it’s naive to think that feeling will return, I’m always left looking—looking for something I’ll never find.
