I Hate Summer

(Disclaimer: Everything here is fictional. I wrote this as an example of a descriptive essay, but it turned into a narrative essay instead. Sigh…)

 

“I hate summer.” That used to be my catchphrase. I used to think there was nothing good about it, mostly because my most painful memories always seemed to happen in summer. The earliest, when I was but five years old.

I was holding on to my mom’s hand and eating a watermelon popsicle. It was a race against time between me and the drips of pink trickling down the stick. If one drop hit my hand, I would lose. The day was sweltering. My feet which were outside the shadow of my mom’s umbrella felt stung by the heat of the sun. Far away, I could see the air wavering along the roofs of the cars parked next to the sidewalk. I wanted to get inside the shop where I knew the air-conditioning would be blasting away, but my mom kept talking to Old Mrs. Lindbergh while holding my hand at the same time. I stared at her hand, willing it to let go. My eyes followed the sheen of the pearls on her wrist, to the faint dusting of golden hair on her hand, to the bloody red color on her nails. Then I heard a tinkling sound, and got hit by a gust of cold air. I turned towards the tinkling and…the whole world slowed.

My eyes only saw through a shimmery haze as I saw a golden-haired beauty jumping down the steps of the shop, following her father. She ran by me, and as I reached out my hand to her, I felt a hint of the smoothness of her curls. I wanted to chase her, but my mom’s hand tightened even more, until her nails were pinching my skin. I was trapped and began to cry. As she ran away, taking all the shimmery golden air with her, my shoulders started shuddering. Great heaving breaths left me, too big for me to control. I felt as if sadness had taken over my whole body, and it would never end. That is until Old Mrs. Lindbergh called out, “Sophie! Here, girl!”

She came back! My one hand reached out for her, popsicle all but forgotten, but before I could touch her wonderful golden fur, my mother pulled me away. “Don’t touch that dog, David! You know you’re allergic!” Quickly, while making apologies to Mrs. Lindbergh, my mother pulled me away and into the shop. Inside the cold cocoon of the store, all I could do was stare outside the window and stare as Old Mrs. Lindbergh gave me a pitying smile.

This would be just one of many summers after this. Summers with my mother where I could not touch, or run, or jump, or move as I wished. Summers after school of staring outside windows wishing I could do so many other things. I’m better now. I’m no longer a sickly child stuck inside a house during the best parts of the season. It’s only at certain moments like these, where I’m playing with my own dog, Frisbee, that such memories creep up on me and make me glad to be healthy and free.