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  • Writer's pictureFran Braga Meininger

Farewell to Summer

Summer is leaving me and I am sad. The air outside is damp and cold even though it is not yet November. I feel cheated. I want more. Summer has always been my time; a time to run free, my bare skin wrapped only in the breeze.

The freedom of a childhood summer resonates within every adult at some level, at some point in our late life as the days grow short and so does our time. We long for that carefree, unbridled, wild spirit that emanated from us then. The child who bolted from bed, hair uncombed, fleeing through a banging screen door into a new world every morning. There was much to do and no plan to do it.

That was summer, filled with the thrill of nothing and everything, individual moments stacked one on top of the other that singularly are thin and pale but in their entirety built a vibrant life. Those are our memories and the source of us. We come from that place and that time when we knew not where we were headed, but we charged ahead all the same, fearless and proud, undaunted by the words of wisdom to be cautious and careful, to watch for cars, stay out of the creek and not to talk to strangers. We did it all anyway and it was the stuff that filled our pockets with joy and vigor. We marched out into the world as though we owned it and in our minds, and more importantly in our hearts, we most certainly did.

Now, here, where I am and who I am, I remember. I can feel it pulsing through me; that feeling of reckless power, of time not marked nor measured, running into the setting sun never noticing the days were getting shorter and the light was fading behind me. I remember and it brings me a sense of myself, now, here, where I am and who I am.

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