Even now, feeling the cold bite into my joints, and seeing the nonsensical kaleidoscope of snow burying car roofs, flakes dancing like lunatic sprites, I feel that summer. I don’t have to close my eyes or imagine the fields buried in green and yellow. I can feel it. I can see it. The warmth, spreading from the blankets at five in the morning, spreading like cornflowers, yellow and shimmering – no, glowing – in the succulent air.
That summer was a time to put away crayons and create watercolors. The lines inside didn’t matter; I was creating my own lines, and the colors were deep and wet.