It’s almost summer. It is summer.
I saw it today while driving around the bend. Heat lifted off the pavement like smoke, and vines climbed trees, building dark green walls on each side of the road. Always along that same bend is where I see the other side, where the wall between this world and the next is transparent and I get a momentary sensation of being where the sun never sets. I meet my dreams there and take them home with me.
It’s hard to believe that with every new summer, Time has moved ahead a year. There is no cycle of seasons. There is only progression of Time with intervals of cold and warmth and awake and dormant and all the in-between. I keep my summers in bottles that I line up on a shelf, and those bottles are a collection of most of my life. They contain more living than all the breaths I take from September to May. They are the times when I am bound to nothing but that which I choose. I wander through hidden fern gullies and forgotten gardens. I find treasures. I choose when to sleep and when not to and when and what and whether to eat. I decide whether to make decisions or follow the wind, and I dream without consequence of neglected responsibilities.
Time progresses, giving summer and taking it away, over and over, but no matter how many bottles I add to the shelf, I never age. I physically change—no amount of effort can maintain my physical youth, nor anyone’s. And eventually Time will take away my body. But I will never age. The Earth gets older every second that passes, but summer will always remain either in present form or in promise. And in the next hundred years, after I’m gone, I will still be found in hidden fern gullies and forgotten gardens, finding treasures, napping in the sun. I will be present in form or promise with each passing summer until forever.