Yesterday the temperature neared 108 degrees. The dry breeze sucked up all the moisture from my body and then blow-dried my hair.
The news anchors reported that the temperature would drop to the 90s in the next few days. The relief from heat would be more heat.
My blonde hair glittered as the rays bounced off of it. I have to admit that I have always loved summer until I came to this place where heat bounced off the asphalt, turning the city into a brick oven. Even the taupe and brown painted apartments can’t push away the heat without the air conditioning going on constantly.
I had braved the heat to spend lunch with my nephew. Family and blood is the only reason I need to walk out into the crushing heat. I listen to my nephew talk about work, family, and social life. I know he is missing the mountain forests, cold clear streams, and throwing his line into the water as he listens to the sounds around him.
I used to love the mountains. My family would pack seven children into a small car with bread, mayo, tuna, and crackers. My father brought his fly fishing rods and bait. When we were freed from the confines of the car, we would run down the small path next to the stream. We would dig for worms and look for the big fat trout that sunned next to a huge rock. Mom would give us a hook and fishing line. We would try to trick the fish into eating the bait.
The fish was smarter than us because we never caught him. We would lie on the rock and sun ourselves and fall asleep. When dusk began to settle on us we would wake to our mother calling us to come back so we could drive home.
It was the only freedom I remembered then. The next day I would be in charge of diapers, food, canning, and cleaning.
So I listen to my nephew and remember what it felt like to work so hard and see nothing for it. I tell him to take some time off and go back to the mountains.