Sweet Expectations

My life no longer follows the rhythm of the school year, when June meant freedom, and August's languishing days moved me ever closer to another year of lessons in the classroom and lessons in life. But when the hot air of today's June morning rushed past me, carrying with it a familiar scent--the sultry mixture of dirt, humidity and cut grass--my mind and memory flooded with other summer smells...the dense aroma of overheated car upholstery, the chemical scent of a new beach towel, the salty odor of hot skin sweetened by suntan lotion. These were the imperfect smells of liberation, three glorious months of freedom. I stood for a moment remembering what June felt like before I became concerned with the effects of humidity on my hair and makeup. That's when another smell flooded my memory--the oddly sweet aroma of paper and print. A new book. A borrowed book. Crisp or yellowed. It didn't matter. They all smelled different but the same.

Maybe I was an odd child for favoring a musty library over the community pool. But I loved getting lost in a good story, and for that, I will never apologize. My mother, desiring to encourage her young readers and escape the vexing heat, wisely shuttled us to the air conditioned local library more than once a week.

Nothing compared to the anticipation I felt tracing my finger over those book spines, scanning titles and authors for the next great adventure. The world was full of possibility just as summer was full of undiscovered moments. Would I make a new best friend? Write a great short story? Have my first kiss?

I did most of my reading when I was supposed to be sleeping--mid-afternoon nap-time, a good solid two hours of quiet immersion in my latest book. I always felt too old for naps anyway. After I had stripped away most of my clothes, I would turn the fan on to its highest setting and let the air blow directly across my body. My cotton sheets and pillow always cooled my skin, as did those faithful pages, smooth to the touch. I became lost in the stories they told. My favorites were Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, Little Women and all the classics devoured by hopelessly romantic girls who imagine themselves the heroines of their own stories. The books inspired my imagination. The summer stirred my expectations of a wonderful story of my own.

Now that I realize one is never too old for nap time, I'd probably still spend mine reading. And summer remains glorious. I forget how much I love it until it's here again, and I can remove my shoes to let my feet touch the grass while my heart embraces another liberation full of possibility. Maybe, I will even visit the library today. More importantly, I seek to open this next life chapter of life with the same youthful enthusiasm as I did those lovely books.

It's June. And anything is possible.