It is not a season

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.