This is Summer

Yes, this is summer. The hot, sharp shingle under your feet, as you walk across the driveway. Bare feet. The burning pain though you try to walk lightly. To lessen the pain. The relief as you reach the soft, wet grass. Wet from the rain yesterday. The birds singing, their beautiful songs, some cheerful and happy, others filled with mourn, so sad that you feel like crying. The sun covering you in kisses, bathing you in light. Morning light. The drops of water hitting your face, as you pull the branches of the tree you've stopped under. Willow tree. The wind whispering in your ears, a secret, only for you to hear: 'Everything will be alright'. And this time, you believe the wind is right. It will get better. Junior high is over. It's summer.

Yes, this is summer. The warmth of the sun. Boiling hot. Too hot. But it's still early, it will get warmer. The wind making the warmth bearable, just for a moment. Then it's gone. Just like everything who has every been good in your life, you think, it's there, then it leaves, and again you're all alone, feeling worse than ever. No. No! You don't want to go there. Down the memory lane. Not now. Not NOW! It's summer.

Yes, this is summer. Getting up early, going to sleep late. Not feeling tired. You're in balance, completely relaxed. Awake. You only get four to five hours of sleep every night, and still you get up before you have to. People don't understand, for you four hours of sleep is like twelve for them, you're not used to sleeping that much. Because of all the bullying in school, your sleep got ruined years ago, you're used to getting an hour of sleep tops, this is why four hours feels like forever. You don't really like sleeping. It's not the sleeping you don't like, you like that, it's like being dead without the commitment. It's the nightmares you hate. And you know that they are not really nightmares. But memories. Bad memories. Like a bad TV-show on rerun. But as time passes by, the memories gets less and less apparent in your dreams, making your days better and better. It's summer.

It's been a month since your last day in Junior High. You try to forget. But it's hard. Real hard. You meet the people you want to forget every day. Passing you on the street. Whispering behind your back when they think they're far enough away for you not to hear. But you do. And you comfort yourself by saying that you only have one month left, then you're out of here, and you will never have to come back. You're never alone. This is why you get up so early. It's the only time you are. Those hours before people wake up in the morning. It's like heaven. It's summer.

Yes, this is summer. The calm of an early morning. The balance. The clean air. Fresh. Chill. The blue sky, with white clouds, like white spots on a blue canvas. A modern piece of art. You hate modern art, but still you find this magical. Beauty is everywhere. Beauty and magic. That's how you see the world. But only when it's summer.

Yes, this is summer. The soft grass between your toes. The wind kissing your cheek as it passes by, playing with your dress a little, on the way. You let your hand slowly glide over your dress. Silk dress. Glove dressed hands. More like sleeves. Or those gloves they wear in the opera. That's who you are, an opera singer. Singing the tragic song, which is your life, to an audience of birds and mice. Like Cinderella. Hated by the ones close to her. Her only friends are animals. You sing some happy notes, not because you're good at singing, but you like it. It's summer.

Yes, this is summer. The squirrels jumping, from branch to branch, in the tree you love so much. The Willow tree. Old and majestic. This is your spot. You put one hand on the tree and lean in, let your head rest there for a while. It helps getting your mind straight. Clearing your thoughts. The wind suddenly has a change of heart and comes back to you. Full speed. You press your dress down with your black glove-hands. It's too warm to wear gloves now, but you have to. It's the only way you can cover up what you don't want others to see. The scars. Like pink skiing tracks on your milky white skin. The gloves is your prison. And your shelter. They're uncomfortable, but telling people the truth about your life is even worse. They can't see that your struggling. They're blind for your pain, your suffering. You prefer keeping them in the shadow. They can never see the real you. Not yet. Not ever. You try not to worry. But it's the time for worry. It's summer.