Sweet summertime

Perfect song on the radio
Sing along 'cause it's one we know
It's a smile, it's a kiss
It's a sip of wine, it's summertime
Sweet summertime

We were in the car then, singing a country song, among the farms, up and down the rolling hills of Ohio. The wind rushing through the wide-open windows. The notes and key muted and perfect.

"Perrfecttt songgg on the radiOOOO..."

The warm and heady July air, scented with grass and wildflowers and pollen. By fields of hay and alfalfa. It carried memories of Sunday mornings, of old metal fans, of small church carnivals, of cabins and pontoon boats and tackle boxes. It was a thing to transcend time and lifetimes.

Of summer days so alive in the moment as to be tinged in loss and regret. In the knowing that its specialness was fleeting, and now almost gone. Like a hopeless crush, like a loss, like a goodbye at the airport. A promise.

She kicked off her sandals and put her feet on the dashboard, adding some authenticity to Kenny's summer ballad - especially since she was in cut-off jeans, her skin golden, her long legs covered by the merest of denim. All we needed was the yoo-hoo. The sips of wine.

An endless repetition of cornstalks blurred past us, marking time; summer afternoon time. Summer burned through its afternoons, it had its own priorities. It was bursting and ripe and not to be ignored. It demanded bare skin and sweat. It begged for Bikinis and flip-flops and belly buttons.

Summer always got what it wanted; its magic powerful. It could make us believe almost anything. In ice cold water, in naps, in freedom. In the carelessness of wasted afternoons. In the belief that rusted tractors were just about the best landscaping, ever. In the mystical beauty of barnwood. In bluegills and sunfish.

In the smell of citronella and fresh dill weed. In popsicles.

When it's hot, eat a root beer popsicle
Shut off the AC and roll the windows down
Let that summer sun shine
Don't take for granted the love this life gives you

Along the country roads, the cicadas had started their afternoon song, high up in the giant roadside oaks. The goliaths rustled their leaves as we drove past, and the cicada sounds would chase us, slowing receding until we reached the next oak.

Beyond each crested hill, there was another country visage, another summer painting, each splashed with the same green pigments. Another summer Kincaid.

"Remember when I told you about the girl I dated at sixteen?" I asked her, across the seats. I had agreed to be silent of past girlfriends, but this one seemed distant enough.

"Well, my favorite memory from that summer we dated is from a hot afternoon, falling asleep on the floor in front of a box fan," I explained. "It's still such a vivid memory."

Memories of that relationship have all faded, except for that one summer afternoon.

We have a kind of bargain with summer. It's a three-month one-night-stand. Summer is ours to consume - to get drunk, to get sunburned, to sail, to watch baseball, to love, to bare everything. In exchange, we give in to a relationship that we know won't last.

And I think it gets high on our love for it.

With summer, life is ripe, like fresh cantelope. Life is succulent and rich, like scarlet-red tomatoes.

Summer can make love seem easy.

And sometimes, it makes the world seem pretty cool.

Like just then, with her feet on the dashboard. Her hair swirling in the open window, blown about by the fragrant summer wind. The smell of her shampoo and of the Coppertone on her warm skin.

All glorius and wonderfully fractal layers of that summer's moment in time.

One she worries will be gone too soon.

"It's a smile, it's a kiss, it's a sip of wine. It's summertime."      

Sweet summertime.