I remember as if it were yesterday.

Summer Vacation!

`No more teachers, no more books!’

It all stretched out before me,

I was eight years old, and nothing could hold me back.

It was a simple, glorious sense of freedom!

Morning routine: shorts on, Keds tied,

t-shirt over my head, skate key around my neck.

Comb? Huh?

Mom’s voice, " Where are you going?"

I replied as the door shut behind me, "Out!"

Truthfully, I had no set destination.

I went with whatever I found.

Jackie and Tommy, Patricia and Buster were waiting.

(I swear. His name was Buster.)

We ran, we skipped, we rode our bikes.

Hoola Hoops, jump ropes, Jacks, marbles, and roller skates

were our playthings, the streets of the city our world.

And I remember long, sleepy summer afternoons

In the park, at the fountains;

hours spent just dreaming,

while dragonflies buzzed and butterflies

flitted around me in the hazy sunshine.

I remember the sound of the cicadas.

It started out softly, then grew louder and louder

until it became the strange, haunting song

that still means summertime to me.

Whenever I hear that sound, I remember that little girl and smile.

6/24/2000

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