It is not a season but a memory,
or nest of memories, of day camp
and Bible school, hot sand on hot beaches,
sunburns, snowball stands, and sloshing
hot coffee or cold milk with hot doughnuts
and listening to jazz, always there
especially when no one was playing,
even too young to know it was jazz.
It is not a season but Saturday matinees,
sitting in the dark cool and watching
badly acted Italian movies with English subtitles,
or taking the bus into town with mother
for shopping and a movie and (if I was lucky)
a ride on the streetcar.
It is not a season but falling asleep
to the sound of the attic fan, upper lip
washed lightly in sweat, or a week
at grandmother’s house and tooling
around in a slightly newer than Model T Ford,
or with the aunt in the Ninth Ward
with a front yard called the levee
of the Industrial Canal.
It is not a season but candy
at small grocery stores and R.C. Colas
with peanuts in the bottom and Moon Pies
whose chocolate melted on your fingers
and homemade ice cream at church socials.
It is not a season but it was all real,
helping construct a child and a childhood,
and now it resides, quietly,
in the mirage of memory.
Over at dVerse Poets, today, the prompt is about summer and heat and mirages. To see what others have done, please visit dVerse Poets.
Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.