Nevermind

Summer arrives to the little island at the edge of the world, streets steaming and skin exposed. My shoulders burn and I can't be sorry. The stores fill with Georgia peaches, pennies by the pound, I fill my bags with their sunshine. When I first moved to America we had a garden with peach trees, apricot trees, sprinkler systems, I thought we had moved to Paradise, I didn't know one could have this for real. We climbed fences and played late night pickup in the neighbor's driveway, had sleepovers on the lawn and scaled the roof from the bathroom window, Simon and Garfunkel in the tape deck and long road trips through the desert West. When I first moved to America it was like we were living our very own dream, my memory of those first years is like a book I keep reading and re-reading, like I know every dog eared page between its covers and it made me who I am at the core. And with every summer that arrives since then, the fresh cut grass smells like America, my own warm skin feels like America, with every summer I am reminded that I started dreaming one August evening and no one
ever
made me
stop.