The heat. The beach. Lightweight clothing. Cold beer on a patio. Outdoor concerts. Gardens. Water. Cloudless blue. Dancing in the street. Summer love.
But today I love summer rain.
It’s misty and damp out, cleaning off dusty concrete, giving life back to the humid air. There are a few cyclists and walkers but no patios strewn with sun worshippers, frothy pints or raucous laughter. No lawns covered in blankets, lovers sprawled in a tangle of limbs. Either way, it’s still summer, and love is in the air.
Why is that? Most people think spring is the time of love – new love, old love reignited, the first buds on bare branches opening their fragile petals, the first signal to come out of hibernation, to inhale, to embrace.
But in summer, we are full of life, carefree, able to abandon the usual things that hold us back. Men walk around shirtless, women more scantily clad. Sweat has Chanel beat as the new scent, and sex is a four letter word.
Everywhere I look, lovers are holding hands, stealing a kiss, necking on a park bench. Haven’t those been the quintessential images of summer for eons? And when the sun dips down and the noise of sunshine subsides, we hear the whisper of sprinklers on burnt grass, the hum of city turned down, clink of glasses, melancholy street music, stirrings behind closed doors.
Being single sometimes has me missing the tingling of summer love, but not the passion of summer. Besides, a good narrative is created by watching scenes go by, marking them, and creating my own love story.
Today it rains, and I love summer rain.