I can't really describe it, but it's definitely the smell of summer: a combination of freshly cut grass, wet pavement, something being grilled on one of the neighbor's grills. And then birds chattering, the rumble of thunder, the flicker of lightning, a cool breeze, and the hiss of cars on a rainy street. The sky peeks out, robin's egg blue, from behind silver grey clouds that lighten at the bottom. The half light is a gentle slate blue and from my bedroom, as I observe this, (and my younger siblings are in the front yard--the youngest one blows me a kiss) I feel safe and truly at home. These are the sights, sounds, and smells of a hundred summer evenings past, this one could easily merge into any childhood one, indistinct in its beauty and comfort. It's balm for my soul, especially the mild thunderstorm (not like the other night: The other night the wind had a grand old time gusting about. It knocked over the empty trash barrels in the driveway under my window and they rattled around, rolling back and forth out of rhythm with the wild waving sway of the shadows the tree branches cast on my window frame. It made me uneasy for some reason, the old childhood fear, maybe, that the tree would be uprooted and crash into my room in the middle of the night. It took me hours to fall asleep, and even then only after I had lit a votive candle and curled up into a ball under extra blankets.), something I've missed while in California.
The leaves on the trees are such a pale and delicate green compared to their deep emerald summer plumage, the lilies of the valley nod in the shadows of the old tree, the two azalea bushes in the front gardens are going wild with their hot pink and fuschia flowers, spreading out onto the walkway to the front door.
3 years ago
