Page 30 of Be My Summer

Hopefully you don’t mind putting up with occasional overwhelm from work, a few overseasoned meals because of my heavy hands, the invasion of your personal space, and frequent family gatherings.

That’s it, Summer.

That’s all I’ll ever ask you to accept from me. Aside from a little downtime when thoughts of losing my mother arise, I have nothing else to burden you with.

If that’s not too much to ask of you…

If you’re willing and ready…

If your heart will allow it…

Will you be my Summer? Fall? Winter? And, Spring?

Saul Rutherford.

Tuesday, before sunrise, I sat on the back porch with pen to paper. I combed through my words for the sixth time, hoping that each paired perfectly to express things that I felt for the man the letter was intended for.

Midway into the small, very private publication, I placed a hand on my chest.

Your scent is intoxicating.

Your presence promises security.

Your laugh mends pieces of my brokenness.

Your hands feel like they were made to catch me when I fall.

And, unlike you, Saul, I fall often… I fall short… I fall hard… I fall deep.

I’m a motherless child. I’d fill an entire journal with the baggage I carry with that. I’d fill your empty closet four times over before I emptied that dirty laundry.

I can’t knowingly, selfishly agree to be a heavier weight than you are in your own life.

I’m not always going to brighten our light.

Sometimes I’m dim. Dull. Desolate.

So, my question for you is–

Are you willing to see the better version of me, even when I’m wearing my faults and the trauma life dumped onto me right on my shoulders? As sleeves in the winter when depression is as common as a cold? As an umbrella on the rainy days even though I still find myself wet? As a blanket in the picnic when the walls feel too overwhelming?

Will you still want me as your Summer? Fall? Winter? Spring?

Summer.

I folded the letter neatly as I stood up on the bed. As I climbed down, I retrieved the meal I’d prepared. At four-fifty, my alarm sounded. I was in the kitchen by five and back in bed doing a final read of the letter I’d written by five-thirty.

In a linen skirt and satin top that brushed against my nipples with each step I took, I entered the living room. My father held a cup of coffee at his lips. Still, I could see the smile behind the ridge of the mug.

“Quiet, old man.”

He shook his head as he lowered his glass.

“I ain’t said nothing, Summer. I ain’t said nothing.”

I tiptoed onto the porch with my skirt cinched in my hand to keep from stepping on it. I made myself comfortable on the couch that hung from the beams. My skirt surrounded me, giving me a sense of security.

Birds hummed, welcoming me into their realm. The sun began to rise, reminding me of Saul’s letter. I hadn’t heard his voice yesterday. He was knee deep in a project he was nearing the deadline on. However, I had a feeling he would make a stop on his way into his office this morning.