With the solstice, we slip into summer speak, like saying, “yes, please,” to the offer of a cold glass, sweating on a hot afternoon.
Summer’s lexicon of languor has an optimistic tone, borne of school-free days and chill-free nights. Nat King Cole gave us “days of sodas and pretzels and beer,” even as he suffered days of racial hate.
This particular season’s words taste bitterer than dandelion greens: choke, tase, spike, peak. And our postcards are placards about realities that are no vacation.
There is hope that summer’s long days might shine light on wounds that need to heal, mending the rifts in our human family, even as the pandemic postpones potluck reunions with kin.
Talk, even small talk, helps, especially if it’s porch to porch, across sidewalks, beyond borders.
Have a seat. Let’s chat a bit, allowing our conversation to lilt light as the welcome breeze our grandmothers encouraged with hand-held fans. Let’s pass the time while curtains soften the intense heat of the day and ice cubes and horseshoes clink their own idle harmony.