Dear Summer,

How are you? I am well. I am writing to you today because…well…I haven’t always been very nice to you—calling you names, listing your flaws, cursing your very existence and counting down the days to your certain demise (ninety-three, by the way. Not that I’m counting). That’s not the kind of person I want to be, and I would like to make my sincerest apologies.

I’m sure you have many fine qualities. …I’m having trouble thinking of one right now, but give me some time.

…

Okay, there must be something I’m not seeing. People love you. Animals love you. Plants adore you. What am I missing? I mean, you’re…bright? Is that what people like? The increased synthesis of vitamin D?

Is it the humidity, maybe? No, that can’t be right. Nobody likes humidity. Well—maybe certain types of frogs.

So then, have we inherited some ancient gratitude, an innate connection with the life-giving, summertime harvest? Do we recognize somewhere deep in our DNA that we owe the sun a debt for our very survival? Our small planet itself revolves around the sun, like a prayer wheel incessantly whirling around the object of its devotion. And the same heat that turns seed into food likewise pulled the energy from our ancestors as they worked to reap what they’d sown, so that when a thunderstorm rolled past in the late afternoon, signaling them to throw down their tools before the riotous show began, they could sit back, depleted but satisfied in the knowledge that they had done good work and now they might rest.

So, all right. That’s fine, I guess. But how do people get past the mosquitos, and the crowds, and the vague aura of stickiness that pervades all season long—even in the pool? Do you bewitch them, Summer? Be honest. Do you make them all just a little bit sunsick so they don’t know what they’re doing? Is this like Stockholm Syndrome?

Well, anyway. Just because I don’t see the good in you doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Really, this grudge is about me, and my propensity not to see the good things that are in front of me. I’m always looking back, toward the cool renewal of spring, or forward, toward the crisp coziness of fall. Maybe this season offers the chance to be still in the present moment.

Very, very still.

Till the sun goes down and the air cools down enough that you can move around without wanting to fall over and die.

Sorry again!

Best wishes,
Carrie Muller

PS—Fireflies. There. I thought of one good thing about you.