Sunday, March 29, 2009


I am liberated. I have moved on.

Dearest Summer,
I cannot wait for you to come into my life. I love your sunshine and warmth. I love walking to class with the wind in my hair, oversized Urban Outfitters sunglasses resting on my nose. Oh, and the sandals: my rhinestone sandals, my red strappy sandals, my Bandolino's, have all been hiding in my closet for far, far too long. I love turning brown in the sun, cooling off in the Snake, skinny dipping at Beaver Dick when the rest of the town is in bed kicking their comforters off their legs. I want to ride my Cranbrook Cruiser with the old-fashioned bike bell; I want to feel the strong wind throw back the hair I meticulously put in its place minutes before and hairsprayed for no reason. I want to climb the homeless man's tree at the Nature Park and feed my loaf of bread to the Mallards--to watch them honk and fight, I would sacrifice afternoon PB&Js. The only thing that could make you better--stretch you to celestial heights--would be fireflies at dusk. Think about it.
I love you.
Yours in 2009,

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