Summer is marshmallow torches and blistered black hot dogs and popsicles broken in half. It's sweet tea sipped on a porch. Chalk drawings on sidewalks. Lightning bugs in jars.
"You're clearly having a better summer than most people," Geoff said. He waved me away from my keyboard, then sat down and typed:
"Summer is bird nests in flower pots and wasp nests on windows and yellow jacket nests where you can't help but mow."
I followed his lead.
Summer smells like moist mongrels and damp dumpsters and a wet load of laundry that's lingered too long.
Summer is poster board on phone poles, tents in backyards, a warm spot in the pool.
It's tumbles of shed dog fur drifting along baseboards; straightened hair that goes curly; curled hair that goes straight.
It's a time for forgetting grudges and chores and appointments, but not so much for forgetting the milk on the back seat of your car.
Summer is like breathing air straight from the hair dryer, sticking to car seats, becoming a gallon blood donor by way of mosquito.
It's the hours you spend running your fingers through your hair after hearing someone say "tick."
The smell of melted crayons. The cost of melted lipstick.
The storms that appear out of nowhere minutes after you've paid a nonrefundable admission at a water park.
Summer is when you want to fall asleep to the sound of crickets outside, rather than the single soloist insect somewhere in your house.
Summer is almost half over.
It might be hard to see now, through the shimmer of heat, but sneaking along behind are wood smoke, outdoor bleachers, warm soup and the crunch of fallen leaves under your feet.
Reach Karin Fuller at karinful...@gmail.com.