All the best days are in summer.
I spend all summer living life and all winter writing about it.
Today in the shower, I started scanning my rolodex of memories — specifically those labeled ‘my best days ever’ — and realized none of them happened in the winter.
I remember the day Derek and I were caught in a brutal July rainstorm which blew into East Dennis like a demon tangled in a gray dress. We ran along the beach and swam with some seals who had come close to the shore to investigate the weather. We ran to the car and drove to a fried seafood place as water dripped from every corner of our bodies.
There was another rainy day when Claudia was helping me shoot a music video in Quetzaltenango and we got stuck under the ledge of a tienda. I kissed her and we laughed as the street deluged in a foot of water beneath the steep sidewalk curb. We stood there watching the world flood around us, thick drops hammering the sidewalk as we waited for the rain to die down.
She smiled as she told me her thick Guatemalan hair got wet and it wouldn’t dry for hours. I’m still not ready to speak of the magic Claudia and I experienced in that stormy day, but perhaps some day I will be.
Cinco de Mayo happened as spring had nearly finished paving the way for summer on Cape Cod, and then there was the day Bita and I found that ridiculously long dock which shot across a sprawling bay. We didn’t even make it halfway across before we were drawn to jump off into the sea as it was being pelted by the rain.
All my adventurous winter days end with my fingertips and toes being cold and a hurry to get back inside. There is no magic to it; just pain and frustration. That’s why I stay inside and write about summer until my life can thaw out once more.
e