Siesta

In the summer I always become younger. Memories of past summers wake up like seeds rushing themselves out of dormancy. Familiar smells and colours, drowned in sunlight, blind me. Haunt me from far away in time. It’s an ambush. They’re here.

Bitter oleander flavours the dry air. Its bright pink flowers are an uprising against the brutal, inhospitable summer regime. There is life here.

Another revolt is underway. As the oppressive heat creates a curfew, midday crickets take the opportunity to take over the stage. A 1,000-piece band.

As the sweet heat enforces it’s rule, a siesta becomes inevitable. An open rebellion to work. A moment of calm. I retreat into the shade, in a cave that smells like rain. Where lavender and jasmine-scented sheets form a gateway into time. Into past summer memories. I fall asleep.

Summer never really goes. It hides away. Like a cake too good to finish all at once. But it does finish eventually.