I stood, newly awake, by the kitchen window, drinking my traditional cup of water and trying to analyze my feeling of summer. It refused to impress me or submit to analysis. Outside the window stood a life-worn tree, all bald patches. Here and there, drying leaves the color of dirty ochre huddled together. The tree stirred no emotions in me, not even positive ones. Though, to tell the truth, not negative ones either. It simply stood there. It had nothing to do with my reflections. I was thinking about something else, merely looking out of the window out of habit.
I was thinking about summer.
In childhood, summer was festive in every single one of its days. The first thing your eyes met after sleep was sunlight. It brightened the room, sparkled in the water carafe that always stood on the table and was far more picturesque than a water cooler. Dust motes whirled in the air, urged on by the sunbeams. Waking was bright, breakfast was quick and unpretentious, and then came the main summer occupation — going outside. First there were preschool joys with “secret treasures” and football (I did not like dolls), and later, during school holidays, there were books. Of course I drew a great deal then and went out to paint studies, but it is the books I remember. In our shady courtyard on Pushkin Street, near the first school, each entrance had comfortable curved benches — solid, almost monumental, and very reliable — where one could settle down nicely with a book. The trees were watered every day, pigeons gathered to settle their pigeon affairs, little children rode their bicycles, desperately ringing their bells, and I read and reread my own books, library books, and neighbors’ books. And I was happy.
That is what I was thinking about by the window. First, the watering hoses disappeared from the courtyards. The trees grew sad, but got used to it.
Children’s voices disappeared from the courtyard in the mornings. Toward evening, of course, children accompanied by their mothers lazily crawl out of the entrances and gather on an unkempt patch of ground, where here and there someone has put slides and sandboxes, and elsewhere bottle-palms and dusty old toys. Incidentally, I have never once seen anyone play with them.
But the joyful running about, noisy games, and children’s emotions are no longer visible.
The boys with guitars, disturbing the peace and irritating the neighbors, have disappeared. Music is almost never heard. Only the old ladies still sit on uncomfortable benches.
A couple of years ago, chicory grew wildly in the courtyard, on the slope of the ravine in front of the house. It did not last long, but it was very summery and beautiful.
This year there is none, and there are absolutely no butterflies either.
I thought about all this with slight regret as I finished my water.
Everyone has their own summer: someone has it at the dacha, someone in a fan zone, someone on that unnecessary Turkish shore (you cannot take words out of a song). And yet one so wants to see it, summer, as soon as one half-opens one’s eyes in the morning.
Maybe I should pour water into a carafe? So what if it comes from the cooler...
Good morning, my summer ones!
July, after all)
