Summer always meant clear skies to me,

With a never-ending supply of sunshine,

And a night that would never arrive,

Where time is paused mid-afternoon,

And I'd bask under its rays lying on lush grass,

It was the time of year

when it was summer

but it wasn't miserably hot

wasn't disgustingly humid

it was the perfect in-between

the Goldilocks zone of summer.

It was a double camping trip

my family

The clinking chain of the swing

The sweet smell of summer

Thundering sounds of someone throwing trash away in the distance

The scratching sounds of my pencil

The warm sun on my skin

Airplane flying overhead

I was five when I learned that grass is not my friend. I imagined many friends, some flowers, butterflies, and others were hummingbirds. However, grass was anything but.

I would 

get up and 

run

out to the yard,

would dance with trees

running up to grab its 

leaves

and spin in my 

pink skirt,

I would pretend

 I was a princess

It wasn't hot for once. Ohio remains hot every summer but the night seems to be like cold water poured over a fire pit:

the heat lightens up but the smoke of it hangs in the air, the remnants of what it was before.