The sun for me is like a drug.
Maybe because I spent so many years in withdrawal.
It’s a Sunday afternoon, and the sun is in its full garb of yellow glory. I lay with my eyes half open, its heat melting all tension from my shoulders.
My thoughts thaw into a nonsensical puddle. The breeze patters a silent drum beat on my back. The murmur of conversation beside me fades into distant horizons. I feel blades of grass looping through my toes.
Only a week ago, we were ducking under umbrellas and huddling under blankets snatched from their neat folds on couches. Mini rivers divided the roads and sidewalks. Summer seemed like a myth while winter held onto its reign.
A friend’s child asked her if it is almost Christmas.
But Sunday gave us hope. Hope of flip-flops and shorts. Hope of barbecues on patios. Hope of driving with the windows down with the radio blaring.
Suddenly, summer seems like a possibility instead of a hope.
I feel the energy that the rain robbed of me oozing back in breaths. All else fades into shapelessness in the glare of the light. My world, overexposed, seems so much more manageable without shadows or shading.
I close my eyes and watch it fade into semiconsciousness with me.