Snow in Summer

I remember thinking about snow in the summertime, when the days were long, hazy, and tended to blend together in an unending line that seemed to stretch out across the expanse of the entire year. But it was all a mirage, a game, a trick of the eye, because I somehow always remembered in the back of my mind that it was also as finite as a dream. As the heat drew me in and made me its love child, I was caught up in its eventual end, when the bitter cold would tear through the fabric of my perfect vision like shears through lace. But that was okay, because it was a reminder that tomorrow comes fresh on the heels of today, and while it’s unexpected, it’s also always expected too. It’s like a stepchild you care for, but who only cares for you when you buy her something she wants. Winter’s condition for occupying a space in the seasonal continuum.

I tried melting an ice cube on the sidewalk in August once, in the blistering, sweltering malaise of the hottest day so far that summer, just to see how long it would take to become fluid. It took longer than expected, drifting apart in sections while I sat on the stoop and watched intently. Without blinking. When it finally was no more, it was then that I recognized the true power of nature, especially in its purest, rawest form. The water that used to be the ice cube slid precariously down the sidewalk, meandering through the cracks that had sprung up along the ragged timeline of the neighborhood until it reached the street. Then it was absorbed by the heat, rising to meet its brethren in the sky, to begin the process all over again.

I remember thinking about snow in the summertime, because the world is comprised of both blazing sunshine and utter cold. Two sides to the same coin that keeps flipping heads over tails forever.

Sam