The summer wears on me, endless and harsh. I didn’t used to find the heat and the light so oppressive. I remember when I danced beneath the Sun until my skin burned to olive and twigs tangled my long hair. I remember when I passed lazy evenings with my body sprawled out in the cool grass, staring as tiny potato bugs crawled among the clover. I remember wild blackberries and fallen apples warmed by the Sun, and bare feet sinking into moist wetland mud. But these things are not part of my summer now, and so the weary procession of days only serves as reminder of all that is lost to me. There are no more streams to leap over or plum trees to duck beneath. There are no more Sunday sojourns to pick berries until my fingers are stained sweet and purple. There is no more father to trail after like a tiny shadow, soaking up laughter and knowledge and memories. There is no father at all, now, so why should I greet the summer with anything but scorn? I just want to sleep. Through today, through tomorrow, through August and September and all the long, hot months that hurt me so terribly. I just want to bury myself deep beneath the chill black earth and slumber in last autumn’s rotting leaves until the Sun finally sinks and merciful fall returns. Then, perhaps, I will wake again.

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