My Favourite Season Summer Exclusive -

“Pool,” I confirmed.

That’s when they came out. First one, then ten, then a hundred. Tiny, floating embers of green-gold light. Sam and I would grab a mason jar, punch holes in the lid, and try to catch the impossible. You’d cup your hands around a blinking light, feel the soft tickle of insect legs, and for a second, you’d be holding a star. We’d fill the jar with grass and watch them pulse, a captive constellation, before always, always letting them go. It felt cruel to keep a piece of magic in a jar. my favourite season summer

It hummed and rattled in the window of my bedroom, making all the right noises, but the cool air it promised was a myth—a faint, apologetic whisper against the tropical onslaught outside. I lay on top of my sheets, a sweaty starfish, listening to the cicadas fire up their tiny, frantic engines. It was the first official day of summer vacation, and the world had turned into a green, buzzing, delicious sauna. “Pool,” I confirmed

The municipal pool was a miracle of chaos. It smelled of chlorine, coconut sunscreen, and cheap hot dogs. It was a roiling mass of splashing kids, where the lifeguard’s whistle was the only law. We didn’t swim laps; we waged underwater wars, holding our breath until our lungs screamed, wrestling for a single, sunken quarter at the deep end. We flew off the high dive, not as boys, but as Icarus, arms wide, stomach dropping, before slapping the water with a crack that left red welts on our chests. It was glorious. Tiny, floating embers of green-gold light

Dusk arrived like a bruise—purple and gold and tender. The air cooled just enough to remind you that the world wasn't actually on fire. We ate dinner on the back porch, corn on the cob dripping with butter, watermelon that stained our chins pink. The conversation was slow, interrupted by long stares at the horizon.

Late afternoon was for the hammock. The world slowed down. The sun stopped being a tyrant and became a benevolent king, painting everything gold. I’d lie in the swaying shade, a book resting on my chest, the words sometimes blurring as my eyelids drooped. The only sounds were the lazy thwap of a fly against the screen door and my mom humming along to an oldies station from the kitchen.

The thunderstorm.