Summer  

I got up this morning to overcast skies. The first thoughts that went through my head as I drew back the curtains were: Summer isn’t supposed to be like this. Summer is supposed to be warm and thick, and so bright you have to shield your eyes from the glare. Summer is a time when everything seems clearer somehow, when the dreams you keep closest to your heart feel larger than life, when you feel like you can take on the world. Well, that’s what summer means to me anyway. Truth? I haven’t had a summer like that in a long time. Maybe I just got cynical as I grew older. Maybe. It’s not even a big deal anymore. I go through the days like a magnet pulling ever closer to some inevitable conclusion, instead of being the one propelling myself toward the end I envision. What that conclusion will be, only time can tell. I guess what really changed was me.

In the summer of my 13^th year, my Dad took us all to Marinduque for two weeks. My Manong was 17 then. Dad allowed him to take two of his friends from school along and so I was left to myself for the most part. There I was awkward and shy, growing taller (by the second, it seemed). And suddenly Manong didn’t feel like I was “cool” enough to hang out with him any more. I didn’t mind so much, as there was so much to explore. Dad had a childhood friend there, and we all stayed with him and his family. They had a daughter around my age and we took to each other immediately. That summer, we did everything together. Their house was small and a bit cramped for 9 people but most nights were spent in tents anyway (Dad was – still is – a big fan of camping). In the evenings we would all be down by the isolated strip of beach which was only a 15 minute walk from Tito and Tita’s place.

During the day, their daughter helped me to shift the rounded pebbles of to one side to make a path. She showed me the places where she went to hide from her parents. There was a small cove at the far end of that strip. We spent hours there just watching the waves, and the boats off in the distance. They looked like pieces of colored glass dotting the ocean at odd intervals. And we laughed a lot, and talked a lot. We talked about school – our favorite teachers and subjects, classmates we couldn’t stand. Our families – how she wished she had brothers and sisters, how my Manong brought home his girlfriend when our parents weren’t there to catch them having sex. Our plans for the future – she wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to be a teacher like my Mom. How very far from that I’ve strayed.

The last evening we were there Dad got drunk. It was a different kind of drunkenness from the way he usually was when we were back home. Out there underneath that endless sky filled to bursting with the most brilliant stars I’d ever seen, he actually looked happy. I saw him lean in close to my Mom and take her in his arms. She was smiling and laughing in a way that made my chest constrict just a little. I wanted to hold them in that pose forever, to freeze time so I could have them like that for always. Tito was tending the fire, and Tita asked me to walk their daughter back to the house. I turned away from looking at my parents, a little regretfully. I guess I had a feeling that it would be a long time before I ever saw them that close again, and in a way, I was right.

As we walked back, she asked me to write to her when I got back home. I promised her I would. In the shadows of their tiny patch of garden, a lone yellow light high above us illuminating the dry, parched earth, I felt time slipping away from me, from all of us. It frightened me so much, that I only realized later on as I was walking back that my hands had been clenched in tight fists by my sides. And so I did the only thing I could think to do. I leaned in really quickly, and kissed her. It was the briefest thing. Just as quickly as I’d leaned in, I pulled my head back. When I felt brave enough to lift my head I saw she was smiling at me. A little sadly perhaps, but maybe it was only my imagination.

The next morning, we packed up all our stuff and left. I still see her now by the side of the road in her faded yellow dress, waving her hand so hard it looked like it might come off, Tito and Tita by her side calling out to us to come visit again soon. It would be years again before that would happen though. I never wrote to her like I’d promised. My parents were arguing considerably more, and I just shut myself off. I returned only once, just a few years ago to attend Tita’s funeral. Tito and his daughter seemed happy to see me. They asked about Dad and my Manong. I told them all I could tell them. How could I tell them that I hardly know my own family anymore? I asked about Tita, if it had been difficult toward the end. She told me that her mother went peacefully, in her sleep. We’ve kept in touch since then. Maybe it will never be the same as when we were two kids, 13 years old, but it’s still good. I don’t have many friends who know me as well as she does.

Where did that summer go? How did life just fly by me? I find myself longing for the days to just slow down because I feel like I’m losing so much. These days I find that I’m so disconnected. Even the thoughts in my head scatter all over the place as I rush about trying to get this thing done, or that thing done. In my heart I’m still in love with that summer, with its people, with the stories we created together. When did that time pass me by?

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I checked my site meter when I logged in a few minutes ago. My traffic has gone up exponentially since yesterday. I don’t know who’s responsible for that, but thank you. Very, very much. I’m amazed that people actually find the things I’ve been writing interesting. I hope that some of these stories resonate with you. Whoever you may be, wherever you are, and whatever your life looks like right now.