The Meaning of Summer

September 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

I remember that summer to be the sweetest, with the sun beating down on us through thick grey clouds. The time that wasn’t spent brooding over the habit of drizzling rain in Ireland was passed at the beach, or the park, where the light breeze put our minds at ease, allowing us to forget of the school days we had only just left behind; the school days that were approaching far too soon.

I spent hours with my feet dipped into the freezing-cold ocean, shaking my head vigorously at my friends, who urged me to jump into the ocean and swim. If it was any other summer I would have joined them in a heartbeat.

But it wasn’t.

It was the summer when, while laughing at my friends’ antics and feeling the sun’s hot breath on my skin, I snuck quick looks out of the corner of my eye at the boy who had captured my heart.

I was sure that I was in love, that he was the one. And that he had no idea I existed.

Sure, he may have recognised me as the meek, bookish girl that sat behind him in his English class. But that wasn’t enough.

I wanted him to desire me like I desired him.

And so, I spent the majority of the first month of June admiring him from afar and wishing, wishing… that he felt what I felt too.

Somehow, it happened.

I don’t remember how or where or even when (those never mattered anyhow). What I do remember was that all of a sudden summer wasn’t about the beach, the park, the sunshine, the rain or even the hours of sheer joy spent with friends. It was about him.

It was about us.

I spent July with my fingers laced through his. For that month, our hearts beat as one; we were inseparable.

Throughout the month it rained heavily, with showers almost every day, during which we would look at each other and shrug our shoulders as if to say “That’s Ireland for you”. But July was never about the showers that dampened our days.

July was about the clear nights. The nights when the clouds disappeared and gave way to the stars, thousands and thousands of them littered everywhere. And us, at the hill tops overlooking Dublin, wasting our nights, our time, just… being.

I used to run my hands over the cool, wet grass, glistening with the remnants of the freshly-fallen rain, as I lay on my back. And sometimes I whispered poetry into the night sky as if I was more profound than the silly schoolgirl that I was.

“nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold…”
He never understood why the tip of my tongue was always brimming with archaic poems.

“Books should be left in school.” He told me when he found me with my nose buried in my gloriously brow-beaten copy of “Gone with the Wind”.

I didn’t mind that he admired Thierry Henry while my idol was Oscar Wilde. Nor that he followed football clubs with the same passion that I possessed for the world of literature.

Nevertheless, by mid-August we were worn out. Oh, we still walked around holding hands and everyone still gushed over how simply “adorable” we were.

But only we knew that I didn’t recite poetry to him anymore, that he no longer attempted to distract me from my books and that our days of admiring the night sky were long over.

We were like two logs in a river, swiftly drifting further and further apart. By the time September came around we were too distant to ever be the same again.

A/N: I actually wrote this one last summer but thought now was probably a pretty appropriate time to be posting it! 


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