Dear Summer:

I can’t believe you never even showed up. What a jerk.

I had such high hopes for the time we were supposed to spend together—times filled with sunshine, prosperity and music. Instead, you’ve left me here by myself with this gray bullshit weather and these gray bullshit people and no damn money.

There were a few times when I was sure you were about to show up. I had that stupid pre-emptive joy feeling (like you might get before you find out whether or not you won something BIG), and I let it get the best of me. I let it convince me.

But of course, the bottom dropped out of that feeling every time and I was left with a great big emptiness where you were supposed to be.

Near the end of August, I was sure that I saw you. Even though you were two months late (and therefore probably not coming), I was convinced it was you. Every day for two weeks, there you were —- and then like that, you were gone. I’m pretty sure now that it wasn’t you at all. If it was you, it’s pretty clear that you came to play golf with the President, not to see me at all.

It’s difficult to express how disappointed I am. In twenty-nine years, you’ve never let me down like this. Not that I can remember, anyway. Maybe I’ve got selective memory issues. Regardless, I thought I could at least count on you to show up at some point.

I guess you can never really completely count on anyone, though, can you?

I wish I could say that I won’t wait for you again next year, but we both know that I will. I’ll anticipate your arrival for months, sitting around like a goddamned fool and daydreaming. By the time you finally do arrive, it will feel like I’ve been waiting for years. Then you’ll be gone too quickly—or maybe you won’t arrive at all. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope it was just a fluke or a freak accident this year, and maybe you’ll show up early next year, feeling all apologetic and guilty and bearing gifts.

In either case, I’ll be waiting.

Sincerely,
Martha From Martha’s Vineyard

P.S. If you don’t show up next year, I’ll have no choice but to chase your ass down.

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~ by saltgirlspeaks on 4 September, 2009.

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