By Emma Do
summer,
like the feeling of the air hot on your skin
when the sun shines a little brighter and the daisies bloom by the train station,
evenings smell like burnt grass, wine, and pasta
the music was loud, yet we sat silently at the kitchen table, dreaming of the stars
the years are short, but summer days are long
it’s like a never-ending stream that flows through your endless memories
the lingering scent of youth, the joy of reunion,
of home,
of mama’s fruit basket and chamomile tea.
but
I hate summer,
“was it the right expression?” I thought
I was never meant for the July rain, or the August sun
the city feels suffocating
as I lay in bed
watching people’s narratives of their own summer relief
summer was better when I didn’t have to grow out of my childhood bedroom
or the family gatherings where I always sit at the “children’s table”,
too young to be involved in adult conversations
but also
too little innocence to still be considered a child.
now all I do is hope.
hoping the humidity would vanish
and the heaviness on my sleeves.
hoping to catch the next flight away.
hoping to leave the person that I have crafted
over the sunny months.
and to hide my memories in a box
let them sit with the dust
so I never have to speak again.
