No one knew it yet, not even me. As the fireworks roared over the moonlit water and the festive colours began to fade into the inky black of night, I thought that I would only wander. To France then to England. To continue on and on where my mind and body could. My worries would be my own, my trifles would belong to me and me only. But with this notebook and this pen, with this keyboard and this computer, I learned otherwise. I learned that it was under a blanket of fire that I fell in love again.
It was summer, and I expected that I’d be running away forever. That’s what the trip was for. I knew I didn’t have the endurance, but it was meant as an endeavor across some of Europe’s great cities. The history of them was supposed to become my lifeblood, making me realize that while all bad things start they also end and then they go on and some cities are built and others crumble and you’re just a tiny, tiny, tiny speck in the big, big, big Universe so you might as well try to shine like a star while you’re alive.
I learned that from you. You always glowed, even though thought you would be sad in the fall. Each year, you died as the leaves did and got cold when the wind blew. You remembered last year and recalled how your bark was bare, naked, vulnerable. Spring came and went, and you never did quite bud.
Winter followed, and it was rain that killed the fall. You told me that it’d be alright but just in case, I should try making a makeshift umbrella with my hands. It wasn’t cold enough for snow, but you still shivered. Frozen. The water that ran beneath you glossed over. We never did skate. It was like our youth died with the rain. Somewhere in between, we forgot to cry.
Summer will come again, you whispered to me on a beach that was warm as the beds we loved in. It’s still winter now, and I am typing this all in a coat. It has snowed outside. I am left looking for things that were once recognizable.
Where is my summer? Where is my summer now?