Summer and I have a complicated relationship. As a child, I remember going to bed while it was still light out while my friends played in the culdesac. My family's moves happened in the summertime. I went to some summer camps with friends. I went to many summer camps by myself. I attended summer classes and watched my friends travel. I traveled to Paris and watched my friends stay home. I toured with my band during the summer. I worked multiple summer jobs. I endured summer's heat and humidity for underprivileged kids. I relished the icy ocean for summer's perfect wave. I despise heat. I love barbecues. For me, summer has held Dickens' best and worst of times.
But it's the light that gets me the most. Nothing awakens longing in me like summer evening light. It's extended. It seems more tired. It holds the potential of the night's coolness and the memory of the day's warmth. It has a power over me, to make me miss something that I can never quite put to words. It makes me feel restless, unwilling to go to bed and wishing I could wake up earlier. It calls me to adventure and makes routine feel like it's just a prelude to something bigger to come. It always asks of me a question to which I am unable to answer. It awakens the Sehnsucht of which C.S. Lewis writes. And still, for the ache it brings, I love its pull. It's complicated.