Crickets Sang in the Night, All Through Winter
I am dreaming of summer. Perhaps it is because there is at least 4 and a half feet of snow on the ground. Perhaps it is because the wind is blowing huge gusts, causing the temperature to plummet into frigid territory. Perhaps it is because all the stores are taunting me with thin and short and mini clothes, teasing me from a retail standpoint. Perhaps it is because I am weary of my boots and want to wear my new flats (that I bought for work and wear with my slacks, but flats nonetheless look much better with capris). As much as I love snuggling into my Tiffany blue flannel sheets, Olive's bassy purr in my ear as we cozy up under the same heated blanket, it cannot compare to the comfort of having the window open the smell of the earth wafting in, being lulled to sleep by the sound of crickets and sprinklers. No blossoming spring or stunning fall will ever make me yearn the way I do for summer. Sarah told me the other day that she would give anything for it to be last summer again. The winter may be eating away at my soul, but I know my depression is gone: I am okay with the past being firmly in the past. For what may be the first time in my 22 years of life, I don't want to go back. I don't want to fix or change or even relive. I don't even want to erase. I just want it to be the summer. Sure, the big scary real world looms on the budding of the leaves and yes, a life change will come with deepening green. But it's happening in the summer: a place where, no matter what, I will always be happy to be. I am not scared of the future anymore. I just don't want it to snow!