Brouhaha Rhythm
A Fickle Mistress Named Summer
Oh, Summer … so long have I longed for your kind and merciful embrace. For two semesters, I have quested through the academic labyrinth. I have endured perpetual confusion and ceaseless frustration, hoping to find you around every corner, only to find another serpentine passageway in my path. Now that I have traveled so far through this dim dungeon, the glimmer of your reward shines clearer even in my tired eyes, but one more challenge lies between you and me. The Minotaur of finals week stands ominously before me, offering one last, fateful change to strike me down. Yet as worn as I am, I am prepared to stand tall and slay it with the last of my energy, if only so I may crawl from beneath its corpse and find myself at your feet, bloody and bruised, yet ready for you to lift my spirits.
I have oft wondered why you choose to elude me so, Summer. There have been so many times when I thought I could feel your presence, when the sky and air seemed to taste of you, when your golden beams were happy to soothe my aching flesh. Then a week, a day, would pass before you fled from me once more, and the chill of a Bostonian (excuse me, Cantabrigian) winter would blow through my veins again. Why did you tantalize me so cruelly, Summer? Why are you so mercurial? Why would you warm me with your sunny glow, then allow your sister seasons to stab me with frosty blades and drench me in will-breaking rain? If you wanted to dry out my skin, you did a fantastic job of it. If you were trying to tell me that I should shower more often, I do apologize for stretching my laundry more than was polite, but you could have simply scorched me to sweating so that I would have no choice but to shower. Oh, wait — you did.
In spite of my complaints, sweet Summer, you know I love you so. In the years of our youth, we spent endless days on frivolous pastimes; climbing trees, riding bicycles, being thoroughly spanked at Little League baseball. Alas, as adolescence took me over, we took shelter in the air conditioning of my study, basking in the laziness afforded by a long and lustrous vacation. But, no longer. Now, in our near-adulthood (Holy Hannah, I am five months away from being twenty), with you comes the promise of more labor, a greater labor, a higher labor, one Hercules himself would have skirted away from. I speak of the opportunity for self-improvement, although the cleaning of my room could probably apply as well. A job, an internship, a chance to travel. Such is the way of romance, one of incredible possibilities and unpredictable surprises. I welcome your embrace, Summer, if only with some apprehension. Do with my heart what you will. Just try not to get too touchy-feely, okay? Your sister Autumn was there when I was born, and I’d hate for her to get jealous.