My son’s friend turned eight yesterday. So a bonfire was the order of the day (or rather, night). We cooked sausages on sticks and toasted marshmallows to make Smores, their melted gooiness sticking to our fingers and faces, as the velvety darkness caressed our skin and the crickets sang their humble serenade. It was the last hurrah, the final nod to summer before saying farewell. School starts next week; and it will all begin all over again.
I made many plans before summer started but the days relentlessly marched on, turning into weeks and then months, as I floundered around trying to find some respite from the heat and not accomplishing mush else. It is the story of every summer. Or at least, it is my story - of hours wasted, lounging behind shuttered windows, desperately seeking that elusive something – the something that the French call the je ne sais quoi.
Because summer, you see, is about making memories. It is about looking back, many years later, and forgetting the heat and the humidity and the pesky bugs and remembering only those moments that stand out in time because of their simplicity and the heart-warming feelings that they evoke.
Time always flies beyond our reach and I always seem to be standing on a figurative threshold, trying to catch it in a gossamer web of words and images. For soon, all that we are now will be but a shadow and all that is will become but a moment of laughter on a lilting summer breeze.