In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs.
I just really need for it to be summer because I need night walks to clear my head and high rooftop bars that make my problems seem small. And mostly because if I’m thinking about ice cream and barbecues and road trips, I’m not thinking about you.
I love summer and I’ve always loved summer and 90 degrees and the smallest, thinnest tops and cherries on the porch and fireflies and ice pops at night. And you were always praying for fall and leaves and cinnamon which were sometimes great in their own way but they weren’t summer. And that was us and that’s why we didn’t work. We were two completely different kinds of people that were both sometimes great but never at the same time and never in the same ways.
I love the ocean. I love how it puts everything into perspective, love the feeling when the waves wash over me and make me feel small. I love the salt in my hair and the water on my skin and the comfort of feeling like I’m a part of something bigger, connected to the Earth in a way I can’t attain when on land.
Maybe love is not supposed to be like fireworks, shortness of breath, or powerful oceans.
Maybe love is the kiss of sunlight on cold, goosebumped skin.
Maybe love is the crisp air found at the peak of mountains.
Maybe love is the sound of rolling waves lulling you to sleep.
Maybe love is the pure and gentle beauty of the most ordinary things, and we simply aren’t looking close enough to see it.
All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer — one of those summers which come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going — one of those summers which, in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful doing, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world.