Summer

It’s summer.  Of that much, I am sure … 

It is summer and I am standing cross-legged against an old live oak that feels oddly rough against my back. The tree completely fills the immediate area where I stand, and the cooling shade covers the ground all the way to the dirt road.  If I look down and stare hard at the little pool of water off to the side, I can see my reflection.  I am 10, maybe 12 years old, with green eyes and brown hair.  The kind of brown they call auburn, and the kind of green they call deep.  I know it’s summer because it is.  I cannot really explain it, but down in the depths of my being … I know it is early July.  The tree spreads out so far that I have to look almost straight out to see the sky.  Nevertheless, I can see it.  It is as blue as the label on the side of the crayon that God must have used to paint it.  The landscape is filled with the dusty memories of my youth.  It is my youth, it is my now, and it is my everything.  It is my dream, and I walk these fields every night, as I have done for most of my life.  I know that I stand under that tree waiting for my heart.  The love of my life who was promised to me when this place was first born all those dreams ago.  She will be the little girl who comes stomping up over the rise along that dusty trail every time the cock crows twice, and that big cloud on the left moves off towards the horizon.  I can feel myself grin every time I hear that rooster, because I know she is coming, and she sure makes me laugh.  Her hair all tangled up and blowing round in the breeze like some wild animal.  Her small hands tugging on that old blue dress that you know she just hates wearing.  And boy, oh boy, is she mad.  She is just stompin’ and kickin’ up a fuss; all the while mumblin’ about this, that, and the other.   Kickin’ rocks and spittin’ fury.  She is my little hellion, my angel, and I have been waiting for her my whole life.  Even though we have never met, I love her as the day is long, and the nights are starred and holy.  She is my muse.

It’s summer. Of that much I am sure …

I remember the first time I had the dream. It was 1970 … July … and my stepfather was raping my mother again. I lay hidden under the bed listening to the sounds of his grunting and her sobbing.  I remember holding my head so tight in my hands that blood seeped from the fingernail that grooved my skin.  It wasn’t the first time I hid, but it was the first time the voice let me sleep.  But, in that sleep, I was given a choice.  I could learn, beneath that bed that very night, not to be the kind of man who made women cry.  I could be a man worthy of his gift of life.  Or, I could keep sleeping.  Even as a child, I understood that there was only one real choice.  I woke up to pain, for love, as love is ultimately the surrender of free will.  I woke up to a promise of an angel in a blue dress.  Her hair a tangled halo.  Her tiny fists clenched so angrily at the world.

It’s summer. Of that much I am sure …

I search for her sometimes.  I don’t know who she is, what she is, or where she is.  I do not know whether she is old or young.  All I know is that she is my everything, and sadly, neither of us will ever know our true heart’s desire in this Passing.  I sometimes wonder if she too walks the fields of tomorrow’s summer each night to seek him under that tree.  His long legs, sad green eyes; eyes that search the horizon for a prayer.  Does she too watch as he waits?  Are they both hoping against hope that they will touch each other … the mercy of just one unspoken moment in time?  Does she know that he promised on mother’s tears all those years ago?

It’s summer. Of that much I am sure.

The seasons are almost over, and winter has come with age.  I am old now, and my work on this earth is almost over.  My children are all grown, and I broke the curse of broken dreams and battered lives that was my wife’s and my family history as far back as we cared to look.  I loved my wife.  With as much heart as I had left.  However, sadly, a part of me could never be hers.  I grieve that she never knew her soul mate, and I pray that fate has something grand in store for her.  Maybe she has a dream too.  I smile at the thought of me to her, as she was to me.  She and I walked down some tough roads together and raised a family to be proud of.  It has been a good life.

It’s summer. Of that much I am sure.

I sit by the fire each night, rocking in my chair, I close my eyes to stand beneath that tree, and every night she gets closer.  Now, I can just make out her smushed up nose and tiny white teeth, and I know that in just a very short while she will look up.  .  I have done all that I promised.  I have tried to live a good life, and bore my sacrifice with dignity and a quiet honor.   I pray I have kept my promise.  The days grow shorter, and my light slowly fades.  

It’s summer. Of that much I am sure.

The little girl kicked the dirt clods as she walked.  She was so mad.  She could not believe they made her wear this stupid dress on such a beautiful day.  Stupid blue.  Stupid dress.  Everyone was sure to make fun of her.  If things were truly fair, she should be down by the creek skipping stones, watching the horses run in the pasture, or catching critters and things.  That is what she should be doing, but no, she had to go to her aunt’s house for some kind of …

It was summer.  Of that much she could be sure.  She could see the boy in the distance walking towards her.  Their eyes met, and then he smiled.  A small step later, she wasn’t little anymore, and she wasn’t mad anymore.  He was just as promised; he was all she remembered.  Summer had finally come.  Summer was true.  Of that much, they were forever sure. 

Summer …




“Summer” © John Anthony. All Rights Reserved.