Winter is for waiting. Spring is for sneezing. Fall is for homework. But summer? Summer is for being . It’s the season that doesn't care about your shoes or your grades or your alarm clock. It grabs you by the back of the neck and shoves your face into a bowl of ripe strawberries.
The sound of a basketball dribbling on the driveway pulled me off the bed. My best friend, Sam, was already outside, his tank top stuck to his skin. “You coming, or are you gonna hibernate until August?” he yelled up. my favourite season summer
It wasn’t a rainstorm. It was a release. The thunder was a bass drum you felt in your ribs. The lightning cracked the sky into jagged white rivers. We didn’t run. We sat there, getting drenched to the bone, shouting over the roar of the water. It was terrifying and beautiful. The summer heat, the pressure of the long, bright days—it all exploded in a single, cleansing hour. Winter is for waiting
I’d walk home, squelching in my sneakers, dripping on the front mat. My mom would just shake her head, hand me a towel, and point to the bathroom. “You’re crazy,” she’d say. “All of you.” But summer
I grinned, grabbed my gloves, and slid down the stairs’ banister, burning the back of my thigh. It hurt. It was worth it.
Afterward, the air was clean and cold. The streets ran with rivers of rainwater. And the smell—that impossible, sweet, wet-earth smell—was the smell of being alive.
Late afternoon was for the hammock. The world slowed down. The sun stopped being a tyrant and became a benevolent king, painting everything gold. I’d lie in the swaying shade, a book resting on my chest, the words sometimes blurring as my eyelids drooped. The only sounds were the lazy thwap of a fly against the screen door and my mom humming along to an oldies station from the kitchen.