thursday

I am convinced Y. and I are incapable of having anything but pleasant (truly pleasant) conversations. The sun stays longer these days. It's something else to walk out of the dark library at eight o'clock and still catch the end of afternoon light. I am looking forward to this summer exceedingly. In the bleak winter days of January, I wrote to friends about rooftop barbeques, watermelon, arnold palmers on stoops. Now I've the hankering for homemade popsicles, summer reading lists, CSA shares, giant giant salads, public pools, napping in parks, bare legs, and ice cold blood orange lemonade with banh mi sandwiches. Mostly sandwiches. This week has been full of winter days in theory, though I walked home yesterday during a warm sun shower. Last night, talking to Y., I recovered a hidden memory. The summer of 1997 or so, when I was around eight or nine, my mom drove me to get my haircut one afternoon. I emerged with a neat trim bob (a haircut I doubt I will ever escape) and my mom and I walked to Rite-Aid to get a scoop of ice cream. When we walked out, ice cream in hand, big fat drops began to fall on my rainbow sherbet. Sun showers have always seemed mysterious, impalpable events. Other fond childhood memories include coming out of dark movie theaters, surprised to be greeted by the sun. Despite growing up in the warmer parts of the world, sunshine remains one of those secret things that gives me unexpected joy.