I wrote the original and unvarnished version of this around 5:45 this morning… the line about watercolors stayed with me through most of last night and I wanted to get it down before I forgot. I thought it felt a little too purple, but didn’t have the time to really give it a thorough rinse before leaving for work. I decided to revise it a little bit; I’m not really a good morning writer.. not before my second cup of coffee, anyway. It’s a mood, a memory, of an old man remembering his finest summer, the summer when everything changed for him. This revisions are minor, but I think it cuts it a little closer to the bone. And my wife did point out that cornflowers are blue, not yellow. Oops. – Steve
No one ever knew that I might have been in love with her.
Even now, as I feel the cold bite into my joints, and see the nonsensical kaleidoscope of snow as it buries rooftops, (the flakes dancing like lunatic sprites), I can still feel that summer. I don’t have to close my eyes or imagine those fields buried in green and yellow. I can feel it. I can see it. The warmth, from blankets to floor, spread like cornflowers, blue and shimmering.
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.