Summer, you were a flame.
You were firsts and fireworks. You were bird-watching and basil. You were honeysuckle-sweet with serendipity.
You were new friends and not-so-new sewn closer. You were days of sun dapples and a certain Lisa Frank-toned sunset I may never forget.
You were carnivals, tubas booming, goldfish gleaming behind glass. You were one concert that left my throat sore for 48 hours. You were “Tiny Beautiful Things” and two mind-blowing movies and too many bowls and bags of popcorn. You were goopy ice cream spooned out by the pint, then its richness walked off with aimless wandering.
You were so many different rooftops — both sparkly Manhattan ones with shiny cocktail stirrers and the crumbly Brooklyn kind, gritty and graffiti-grizzled. You were laughter and tears and sometimes both at once.
You were bare feet and sweat like donut glaze. You were fresh freckles scattered across noses and skies star-sprinkled. Gray skies, too, and rain piled on rain, refreshing for a moment. You were fire hydrants exploded.