It's closing in on the end of summer, although you can't tell by the weekly forecast of century-sized temperature readings for this week. I have come to detest this time of year. Not for the heat that it brings, but because of all of the memories associated with the season.
As a child, summer was a time to be carefree, to splash around in homemade swimming pools made from cattle troughs, to fish with Barbie and Snoopy fishing poles, and dancing at rodeo dances with your Daddy.
As a young adult, summer used to be filled with rec softball, taking the kids to swim, and sitting around a back porch talking until you had to stay the night due to sleepiness.
No, I don't hate summer for these things. I hate summer because now every summer will be permanently melted into a puddle of memories from last year.
I haven't written or even discussed at length everything that transpired last summer. I guess maybe I felt that if I really let everything out into the open that it would finally make it real and final.
I am not even sure why I feel compelled to write about it now. My only guess is that if I can write my way through it, summer will be over as quickly as possible.
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