Summer in the Young

Sam Bailey

Summer has grown dreary, like melancholic vines darkening over the pristine oak. The spring varnish has been irrefutably tarnished, put to bed til the bout of storms and showers finally weathers no more. For now we drown in rain, grey and occasional incandescent gleams. The sun flashes sly smirks as if it knows what we long for, yet with a wink it’s once again resigned. The rain tires itself out against my bedroom window, it splashes and heaves then grows more conservative with age, proceeding to seemingly rejuvenate itself as if scolded by its own destruction. The landscapes are still as green as they’re allowed to be with the ever-present weight of mist and cold, and the dull skies dutifully overlook dampened tarmac and subdued grass, as if the world I live in is and will  forever be shrouded in an eternal sombre gaze. 

I reside in the homes of close friends and the bed that is my own, I sing in a non-existent key and play piano like a drunk with a liver just this side of death. We make our way through songs and radiate like irridescent gems as soon as we finish, taking pride in both the journey and destination. How fulfilling.  I glance at the twins younger than any of us, their vivid joy cartoonish, yet the truth of its origin apparent. Unashamedly, unabashed, uncorrupted youth. Their confidence is an unabashed supernova of endless opportunities. I pray they don’t feel how we do.

My friend’s brother; no older than five, sprints with a dazzling charm. He exclaims “I’m the best!” and means it with every muscle of his seemingly miniscule being. The childlike exclamations are the purest form of pride and wash over its bystanders  in waves of exuberance, tinged with the jealous yearning for their own pride, buried by the depths of their regret. I was never scared of growing up until I met people younger than me, until I looked at them and tried to hopelessly cling to what was once mine. You’re a better person at that age I realise now, less defining factors in your moral fibre, less blemishes upon your pure childlike soul. Life’s greatest punishment is never realising that until you’ve gone too far into age. The cruelty of reminiscence and nostalgia is one I am avidly acquainted with. 

I have trekked the countryside like a crazed lunatic, dehydrated with three hours of rest in my system. Thorns in my legs prick like kisses, splinters across my hands like glitter. There’s always a childish gift awaiting me in the hillsides, the sheep occasionally harmonising, the rambling conversations like jagged rivers and “fun facts” dotted like glaring stars across a child’s drawing. The irregular and irrational rhythms of life pounding against me, the same rhythms I first noticed at three gliding on the back of my father. At that point the snow was icily bitter, whipping against my face, but now I would do anything for the familia chill. To be able to look at my dad like a mosaic, a statue, an art piece by which I could adore from far away, too far removed to see its imperfections. A messenger from the gods, capable of delivering every message of goodwill. Oh how I long for that to be the truth. Unsurprisingly yet still devastatingly, thirteen years later we have snowballed like those that we threw on playgrounds. Thirteen years later it’s a heavy Summer, heavy not with heat but with menace. 
I can’t bear the responsibility, especially not in summer. The expectation is to live with that youthful vigour. To carry that rucksack of the many lives lived, the ones currently breathing beside you and down your neck, and the unborn that shall carry the generational flame. I want that youthful vigour. I crave it. I need it. I yearn and toss and turn and keep it in my mind like a heirloom pendant that forever swings in unison with my beating heart. Instead I lay like a hardened corpse in unwashed sheets, a duvet like a dumbbell and pillows like unrelenting chains. I’m not having a summer holiday, I’m having strings of summer days like torn yarn from a tapestry trying to mend itself. The concerts, fairs, parties and typical love are for an ever postponed tomorrow, that dream is dying. In another two summers I will be driving the same asphalt my mother has for the majority of her life. A cruel trick of fate? Or a destiny I should relent to, as what else do I have that is fully my own. My fellow classmates, band members, acquaintances and friends will have made a break for a new life and I shall be duly exiting theirs. When this is the thought that crosses your mind in the swirl of summer, you’re not in possession of that youthful vigour. You simply lost it too many years ago.

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Sam Bailey is a 16 year old Welsh writer focusing on the experience of growing up in the countryside.