I wish summer still meant long, lazy days. Reading on the couch, collapsing under the swamp cooler, lining up my toy horses on the front porch. Running errands with my mom and siblings. A soundtrack of talk radio. Dinners on the back porch, talking into the night. Sibling sleepovers in the living room, in carefully constructed blanket tents and kitchen-chair beds.
That almost-endless span of nothing-to-do in which Everything could be accomplished.
With a super awesome birthday in there somewhere, my brother's a month earlier like the warm-up act for my own.
|Dog days of summer.|
And then the thrill of school shopping, poring over schedules. Planning and dreaming and scheming to make everything about this year perfect. Notebooks and pencils and backpacks and pens. The change of pace, the comfort of routine.
|Leaves in the fountain.|
The quiet, sated week between Christmas and New Years. The final party, welcome, new year! The return to school, docile with celebration hangover.
|Lights in downtown Tulsa.|
Spring Break, a much-needed respite. Warmer weather. Lilacs in bloom. The year's most pleasant walks to and from school (or are those in the fall?).
Now it seems like life consists of nothing but that January/February/March slog. The endless routine, always the same. Nothing changes. Nothing to anticipate. The same dreary work, the same evening routine of gym-chores-dinner-tv-bed. Weekends longed-for but wasted in more chores and commitments and an unfulfilling laziness that is only a cheap imitation of rest. The same bleary-eyed awakenings, begrudging the alarm.
Sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's cold. I'll wear sweaters and boots or tanks and sandals. But it's the same stuff I'm doing. No breaks. No vacations. No completion.
And maybe that's fine. There's nothing wrong with my routine, with the tasks that fill my days and weeks and months and years.
I just wish the seasons meant something again.