a predicted 1 to 3" of winter

I love that monumental moment when we're walking home from school and we're screaming and squealing, cheering and all tearing up,  because the sun is so hot, we can't feel our legs we squeezed into the tubes of our jeans that morning. They're all tingly and sleepy. We all run home, shave our legs with a purpose this time and we change into our shortest shorts. We walk around the neighborhood with nothing to do, but just to show the world that, yeah, we can walk around the neighborhood in our exercise shorts. And, yeah, in our bare feet.

Now I'm wearing my swim suit under my Sunday dresses.   I haven't taken it off in weeks.

Swimming replaces showers, chlorine and lake water replace my shampoo.

I haven't seen jeans in months, heck, I haven't seen a bra in weeks.    Swim suits act as everything now.

I'm not picky about the music I listen to during the summer, as long as there's lots of music to listen to.

                        I miss the crickets. I even miss the mosquitos. I miss having something to resist. Something not to itch. Something to avoid and something that gave me a challenge. 

I miss cars with roof windows. I miss when only the best friends got their own cup in our family's kitchen. I miss house guests. I miss our Arizona house guests the best. I miss taking them up the canyon to show off our trees.

But, most of all, I miss the sun. How it would warm my hair.  I spend all spring with my hand on my head, feeling for summer. You can go around all April, touching everybody's hair, waiting for summer to happen.

But this summer's gonna be different. Exciting, and so different. We're already buying maps of the South of France and I'm making a numbered list of who's farewells to hit first if they're all on the same Sunday.     Because, just as it happens to be, just about every one of my friends all have 9 o'clock church.  I don't know, God planned it all so we could all text at convenient times and our mom's won't even get too mad.

And, if everyone who even loves me leaves in this mass substance of teenage righteousness and adrenaline, then who will be left to love me?

You can't fuel freaking love purely on over priced postage stamps and electronic mail, trust me. Especially if it feels like they're not reaching anyone.  Like everything you've ever said has been last with the mexicans who search through your letters for anything at all that is valuable..   or they're lost out in space somewhere.. between a prayer to God and the internet. But, really, we're just trying to be positive here. When you know you're not the only one left in this world, but it still feels like you're talking to no one. 

Maybe, if there's no one left to love me, I'll have to learn how to like myself.

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