A post from wayback:
Olivia knows I detest winter. She knows it to the point that I cringe whenever she makes a farcical statement about my only slightly embellished disgust for the time consisting of the day after Christmas till the day whenever-the-hell spring feels like making it’s immediate but much too brief appearance. I’ve poisoned her. And although I never meant to, I can’t undo it. I can’t erase from her perfect little memory bank that her daddy, who loves her more than life can contain, spent so much effort bemoaning something he has no control over and can’t just press the redo button like on the DVR and take it back. I inadvertently taught her to loathe something and to waste effort on doing so. I’m saddened by my actions. She doesn’t care right now and if I am lucky enough in the future to be even more fortunate than I am now, she’ll write it off as another asinine thing that makes up the mindset of her petulant old man. But if I’m not lucky – and I have been enormously lucky so far which scares the bejeezus out of me that something must inevitably go haywire – then Olivia will pay the price. And I’ll only have myself to blame, and her to accept my begging forgiveness. So to you my perfect Olivia and your most handsome brother Lucas I offer this apology wrapped rhetoric.
I finally figured out why Summer means what it does to me. Books and narratives and shittier articles than this (if there are any) all reek of inane dribble and 3rd grade rhyme schemes tucked inside folds of expensive cards. Sure summer brings out starry nights and cool winds and tired cliches that have been retreaded in Hallmark stores across decades and latitudes.
For me Summer is the forever youth I always wanted. It’s forever-ageless 10,12, 15, 19, 23, 30 years. It’s full on mind-fuck hedonism and unapologetically brash. It’s the life I lived in my head that never grew up while my body grew older and more tired. It’s my first drive in my old Toyota Celica stick-shift with a hand-cranked sunroof. It’s discovering the car had an 8-track while cleaning it one day, and rocking my Dad’s Uriah Heep and my own KISS 8 tracks on it. It’s adding some Radio Shack home speakers rigged up to a cheap Alpine stereo after pulling said 8-track player out.
Summer is remembering all the firsts I’ll never have again, only better because the girl always said yes, and the slow dance never ended.