Melancholy summer

When I was a child summer lasted forever.

Summer was a kingdom onto itself where I was the queen and each endless day was tailor- made for my pleasure.

My childhood was spent splashing at the lake, practicing somersaults in the water and building sand castles to house my dreams. My teenage years were a blur of short shorts and suntans and sticky-sweet air heavy with possibility.

Summer is a melancholy time for me now. The older I get, the more I feel its essence slipping from my grasp. I no longer expect to enjoy endless sunshine, lazy days and sultry nights: I find myself yearning for just a day or two - a few hours even - in which I feel that the rays on my face are reflecting the joy in my heart.

Age, it seems, has stolen my ability to live in the moment. I am compelled to peer anxiously forward, planning next week, next month, next year: fearing winter's chill even as the sun shines warm and bright.

I wonder if Graham thinks that summer will last forever.


I wonder if he will view these days, these sweet moments, so rushed and random to me, through a lens designed to colour and stretch them. I wonder if they will forever be rendered longer and brighter and sweeter in his memory.


I wonder when he will start to feel, as I do, that the seasons seem to blend one into the other. I wonder how old he will be when he realizes that autumn, with its rain and ruin, is waiting in the wings.

I hope it will be a good, long while.