I talked to Summer today. I told her, “please be still and slow and careful in your movements; please don’t showcase to me those areas of my life which harbour and hold deep-rooted memories and nostalgia. Please be kind and carefree as your reputation. Please don’t leave me behind.”
Summer didn’t respond; she just sat there, pretty of course, facing the wall. From where I stood, I could only see her long, fresh, flowing hair; I could peer at her new manicure, her gently-worn dress; I could hear the gentle, breezy chaffing sound of her brushing the stoic butterflies from her arms. I saw them fly away, bouncing up and down along completely still, heavy air. I saw her hand moving; she was fingerpainting swirly clouds on the walls.
Summer? I called her name again; it felt and tasted like tart lemonade on my tongue. She still didn’t answer.
I wrote down my wishes and left them at her back. I turned around and walked away, and I heard her murmur at me as I left her in the distance behind me. I couldn’t make out her exact words. I could only hear her hauntingly familiar voice billowing down into the crook of her neck.
So much rested upon my conversation with Summer. But my discussion, ending more as words being tossed at her back, reminiscent of reading a forbidden text over someone’s shoulders, offered me little except an eerie calm and dead uncertainty.