There’s a field behind the high school near my house that I’ve been taking boys to to make out all summer. No, I’m serious. I know it’s juvenile. It springs not so much from a desire to relive as a desire to rewrite.
Summer in high school was a time outside of time. It was when anything could happen, when the rigid possibilities of being in high school fell away. When it came to an end – an end like this summer is ending, oh August, Sunday of summers, why must you be so heartbreaking, even as you die – it was an end that sealed in change. You went back to high school, at least for the first day, feeling that things were going to be very different, carrying with you your parcel of changes, all the ways in which you had been marked as plain to you as if you were wearing new skin.
Fifteen-year-old me would have called this summer a full seizure of possibility. The things I do now with complete flippancy, immune to any kind of personal development they might try to wreak upon me, are things that she considered totally beyond her grasp.
But it feels empty. It feels like something that was supposed to happen and didn’t. Like I slept through Christmas.
I can’t believe it’s already August.