Summer sun saps the way our eyes take in light, and whether it’s the chlorine from the pool or the overtaxed stimulation of the pupils, near the end of the afternoon everything is hazy and drained of color. Sepia-toned memories from an isolated island of our own creation push against the encroaching reality of a world gone mad. A song sounds from a dusty antique boombox, the voice of someone long dead and still celebrated, a song of hope and defiance and love – a song of summer.
Sunday nights in summer are a strange time. They feel less wicked than they do in the winter, perhaps a residual PTSD trick from my school days. They are quieter in a different way – somehow even the light lands differently. Let the weekend linger, they seem to whisper, leave the work-week troubles for another day. Let the relaxation run on a bit, let it bleed into the wee hours of Monday.
It’s summer. Nothing is as serious as you think it is, especially a Monday morning.
