I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Thinking about Summer. Two particular summers, in fact. Two special summers, long ago. Sometimes they seem long ago, anyway. Sometimes they seem like yesterday.
I visit these summers from time to time anyway. Sometimes I think that’s what summer is about, once you get to a certain age and summer mostly just means that it’s the air conditioner that’s on in the office instead of the heater – remembering summers when it meant more than that. But right now they’re haunting me hard. That’s what happens when you visit home, I guess. You walk the country roads, you listen to Strawberry Wine and Chattahoochee and Like A Rock, and you think about the summers when you were young and this was your home.
So what to do? How to put those ghosts to rest? I’m a writer, so I write. I tell the stories of those summers. Except there is no story, exactly. No grand romance or quest. The only adventure in these stories is being young. These stories will be more poetry than prose, trying to capture a feeling instead of a series of events.
Stay tuned.
(And be on the lookout for other, older Stories Of Me. I’ll be importing those from my other blog soon.)