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Posts Tagged ‘summer’

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She made me lie down in the sand next to her in the rain. We held hands.

“Just be still,” she said. And the rain came down. “Spread your fingers wide, like this.”

The rain hit my face and ran down my cheeks. It soaked our clothes and our skin and our hair and everything got sandy.

I spread my fingers wide.

“Can we get up yet?” I said.

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll tell you when.”

Minutes passed and we listened to the rain come down with our eyes closed and the thunder far in the background.

“Do you know what causes thunder?” I asked.

“The lightening,” she said.

“Yes, but what about lightning?”

“It never strikes twice… Okay, let’s do this.”

We sprang up, turned, and saw our silhouettes carved dry on the sand.

We were here. We were together.

The rain quickly filled in the blank spaces.

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Last Evenings of Summer

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It’s the open windows of summer that I’ve started to miss. I miss all the people in town sharing their indoor space with the world. On my walk home, I used to be able to hear a conversation every night outside an open kitchen window. It was a husband and wife, both just getting home. It was the same time every night, the three of us doing our societal clockwork. I’d hear only small fragments and always the same questions: the how-was-your-days or anything-happen-at-work-todays? The mundane exchanges coupled with the openness of the window always lead me into nostalgia, like they should have a pie cooling on the windowsill or something.

My neighbor plays his piano every night. He lives alone with his master piano and he isn’t very good. Still, as I sit in my home and he in his, I wouldn’t trade our evening concerts for anything.

Air-conditioning can sometimes feel like a godsend, but God, it’s so nice to feel like nothing’s changed.

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Wind Swept.

One weekend: City lights in the rear-view, The Sunday Times, an Irish pub, sunsets, crashing waves, cold nights, sweaters, drive-up beach fronts, and books and books and books and books and books and the first glimpse of springtime sun.

Here’s to the warmer months to come…

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Past your house.

The morning light seeps in through now, with the time change,

and I get confused when I wake up.

I count them, twelve steps to the bathroom, fourteen more to the tea kettle.

I lose track on the way to the balcony. Good morning sun.

Seen so many places, vast empty spaces, that I adapt to the crickets in the morning.

My own feet on the ground, shifting weight, and I wonder if the air will ever smell like winter here.

Those first chills always came early, summer days moving by fast, and people’d say, “fall’s comin’ on quick this year.”

At night, I play this game; I walk past your house on the way home from work. You’ve been gone but I think of you.

What’s the game? I hum your melodies backwards.

I thought you’d like it.

Because no one brings the guitar now, and no one the bottle of wine to share.

But the kettle rings, the tea steeps, thirteen steps to the dresser drawer, and from there, always far many more than a day should have.

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I remember sneaking up to the attic when my parents slept with their door closed. I’d pull the bed out that the couch turned into and would flop, flipping from side to side, a king in his luxurious court, presiding over all of himself.

And then there was the time Philip came in and my flopping stopped. I’d been caught. Even the squirrels who would rustle back and forth on the roof throughout the night, they stopped too. He looked at me and said he was going out, that he wanted someone to know, just in case, he said. And I said to come home soon or Who cares what you do? I don’t remember which.

And I heard him creak down the stairs on all the ones I knew to avoid and felt the summer night creep in through the window as I heard his footsteps outside.

I was barely awake when he came back an hour later, smelling of lake water and the fullness of a lived summer night.

He came to say goodnight, but this time the crickets were louder than his steps. He sat next to me on the bed, dipping me toward his warm wet weight as the mattress creaked.

“I’ll have to show you stars sometime,” he said to me.

Here’s the thing though: I’ve always been much more cautious.

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summers going fast i hear.

I told my mother not to worry and she never did, as mothers do, because these were big summer drops and our toes in the sand digging in deeper and deeper still.  Her hemp sandals stayed at the bottom of the dunes, underneath a tree with her bag and leather journal, my shirt, too.  The dunes dropped off quick on the other side, steep into the forest and we had rolled down hours before and spent the whole evening feeling the sand cool under us as the sun went down.  Now it rained and rained more and we crept closer to the tree trunks to, well, not to stay dry, we certainly weren’t that, and not warm, as the drops were bath water, but we clang to the trunks none the less.  The dune was easier to climb then now that the water had stiffened the sand some and we made our way up to the top with ease.  She spread out her arms wide and I watched her and the lake as the waves picked up with the wind.

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This is the bean. People made fun of it when it was being constructed and complained about all their tax dollars going toward some stupid sculpture. (Granted, it ended up costing around 23 million of those hard earned dollars.)

But then everyone realized that it is the coolest thing ever.

Here’s what it looks like from inside:

Walk from the bean, and find yourself with a bottle of wine at one of Millennium Park’s  free concerts with full orchestra. Here are two things I like: cellos and skylines.

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