Embracing Summer’s Simple Joys
I used to chase fireflies on warm summer nights. Now, I watch them blink and communicate in their own secret language, feeling like a quiet intruder, savoring their light show from the comfort of my own little corner. If you were to ask my mom, she’d say this is a good thing. Need she remind me of the incident of 1998? Let’s just say I gave one a goodnight kiss with a little too much passion, rendering it effectively lifeless. Like Sleeping Beauty, but the opposite.
I remember riding bikes with wild abandon, the kind of carefree energy that makes you forget breakfast altogether (although, because my mom was responsible, I’m certain it was part of our routine). I can still picture myself jumping out of bed, throwing on a mismatched outfit, and tying my hair into a messy bun, not unlike the one I wear today. My brother and I would race outside to meet up with the neighborhood kids. The sound of playing cards fluttering against his bike wheels still echoes in my memory.
Speaking of sounds, I used to be much better at listening. Lying in bed before sundown, trying to fall asleep, I’d hear the hum of lawn mowers, the music drifting from porches and decks, and the elusive laughter of a neighbor (whose, I’ll never know). I could also hear the fridge opening and closing, our parents grabbing a cool drink or a scoop of ice cream. Smart, getting it once we were asleep. I respect it now.
Summer was full of smells that still linger in my memory. Fresh parsley reminds me of my late grandmother, an enthusiastic gardener. I couldn’t tell you if she ever cooked with it, but I remember her pinching it from the ground, rubbing it between her fingers, and lifting it to her nose, then offering it to me to do the same. Sunscreen and pool chorine, which turned my hair a peculiar green, still evoke those long summer days. The smell of burgers on the grill, gasoline, freshly cut grass, and that distinctive scent of asphalt after a rainstorm—something we always needed, according to the grown-ups—are all vivid in my mind.
I took summer for granted back then, but I’m ready to rediscover its magic. There’s a mason jar in my kitchen, waiting for the next firefly display. I can rent bikes at the beach and ride with the same enthusiasm I had as a kid, albeit a little less stamina. My garden’s bursting with fresh herbs, and I’m ready to step outside and bury my face in the basil (the neighbors surely already think I’m strange, given my over-the-top efforts this year to protect the plants from the squirrels). I’m allowed near the grill now, usually, anyway, so it won’t be long before the smell of a sizzling burger fills the air. This morning, after the much-needed rain (they were right), I hear the neighbor mowing his lawn.
It’s time to soak up every bit of summer’s simple pleasures.