Another trip on Saturday to Larkspur and Forget Me Not, Sweet Pea and Fever Few.  It was hot here by 8 a.m, even in the yellow-nylon shade of the farmer’s market pop-up tents, and on the rain-soft grass of Ann’s lawn, sweeping down to the river.  I brought a bucket of water with me so the flowers could have a long, cool drink on the drive home.

I pretend to dislike hot weather, so I don’t have to argue with people about how terrible the summer is.  But years of being force-marched to the Fullerton Avenue beach taught me not to resist the sweltering.  Just another crabby Park District day-camper, kept in straggling line by the unsympathetic teenage children of Who Got You That (Patronage) Job.  And no – in 1972, no one was lugging along water to keep us hydrated.  That’s what the drinking fountain is for, ferchrissake.  No, we’re NOT stopping on the way.  Wait til you get to the beach.  Jeee-sus.

I guess if I’m not a little too hot, it just doesn’t feel like summer.

Regrettably, there is only one story in my heart to tell.  For a while, it seemed I had forgotten the words to this story – a blessing, maybe, like the welcome discomfort of summer heat.  The words came back to me this week, though – surprising me with their intemperate confidence. I blurted out a lot of things I shouldn’t, and showed a lot of feelings I’m not supposed to.

The silence afterwards is a familiar traveling companion – although too indifferent to my feelings to be called a friend.  I know this silence very well.  There won’t be any answer.  I just wish I could stop hoping.