Summer in a Snapshot

I've never particularly liked Tuesdays, but this one reminds me of home when I was just a kid. Home on the outskirts of the country, where white-picket fences dotted the horizon. Sitting on porch swings, spitting watermelon seeds, listening to my Grampy talk about growing up as cigar smoke billowed around in a comforting shroud. About the times I used to see the future as something that stretched as endlessly as the Texas sky.

I’m cutting class for the afternoon, sitting Indian-style on the parade grounds. The weather wonderful—warm enough to shrug off my sweater, but chilly enough for visions of sunburns and lemonade. I can almost taste the salt water, the coconut suntan lotion; I can almost feel the sand shifting underfoot.

Just a beautiful day, thawing away three weeks of stress. Perfect.

The light stings my eyelids, so I close my eyes and listen. Frisbees drone overhead, soccer balls swish and thump as they pass underfoot. Campus buzzes with good-spirits, appearing from beneath scarves and boots and winter hats. Dancing in the sunlight, sashaying in the oaks. Awakened.

At moments like this, living comes so naturally.

I shudder as a thick shadow steals over the grounds. The breeze whips my hair across my face. Icy tendrils of wind pelt my neck and arms. Squinting, I look up. A bruise is lurching overhead. Storm clouds stain a blue, crystal sky.

The parade grounds clear, leaving me alone with my thoughts. With a broken umbrella as my only backup plan, I hug my sweater tight and head home—back to the mundane, back to mediocrity.

It’s enough to remind me that moments like this are fleeting. Even beauty chooses to linger in rarity. Perfection is a snapshot.

It’s wintertime in Baton Rouge, but summer’s blooming.