Every summer I have a fling.
The romance starts in the spring. The seduction of the sun after long, dark winter nights always pulls me away from the cozy hibernation of the indoors. My clothing gets lighter, I show more skin, and turn my back to anything that pulls me away from the fullness of his attention.
The house becomes a forgotten locker room. I bathe, change, and sleep inside, feeling that each moment is wasted away from the splendid beauty of the summer. Spending time away from the fresh air and wildness of summer pains me. My patio becomes the breakfast nook, living room and dining room. I lose track of time, and weekends blur into the workweek, each sunny morning a painful reminder that at some point I have to steal myself away from the embrace of my May-September lover, interact with other people and for-god’s-sake-put-on-some-decent-clothes.
Increasingly nostalgia blossoms into a familiar yearning for the type of countryside wildness into which I was born. A sensuality city-folk only ever glimpse but never fully appreciate; picking wild raspberries by the roadside, climbing ancient, gnarled mulberry trees to acquire enough fruit to bake something delicious, finding wild strawberries in the grass, and falling asleep with the window open in the dark nights that the city can never know.
My home turns into a bit of a museum in the summertime. Even though autumn is a time of slow decay, it has always signaled a fresh start. A renewal of routine and return to the warmth of home. And so endeth my summertime affair every year. Slowly I come back to preserving the harvest, decluttering all that was dropped and forgotten as the sun seduced the household outdoors.
Summer affairs allow you to sip the sweet, sweet, nectar from the cup of life, but there is something to be said to waiving good-bye and coming back home.