Old Summer

It smells like summer.
That indescribable tingle in the air, mixed with something that belongs to flourishing trees and happy flowers, something that says, "Here I come!" ...
It's the smell of anticipation.

As I sit in my room today, I watch the trees sway gently to the left and to the right, then to the left again. I listen to toy-like cars hum as they drive by. Perfectly squared at the corners like matchboxes, condos stand still as they receive sunbeams. People are talking in the distance in garbled tongue.

I sit, lit up with anxiety about some sort of fascinating finality, with my back as properly straight as possible.

I haven't smelled summer for years. Or at least I haven't actually sat still enough to allow my mind to register it. But I know the sound of an End. I know what that particular awkward silence sounds like -- when you want to say something, but you can't find the courage to say it; when you wish that he would come and show you signs that things are just as they were, but you know your wait is just more time for daydreaming.

How many rehearsals do I need to learn this awkward dance well enough so that I don't have to keep on going through it over and over again?

It's amazing how some disappointments have such a way to bring up old pains.