We wish for grass-stained kneecaps and sudden summer downpours puddling around muddy bare feet and strollers carrying babies that babble and wave their dimpled hands as if they’ve met us in another life. We wish for yard sales run by someone’s grandparents packed with useless collectibles from a war we weren’t alive for and sprawling picnics that leave our fingers stained cherry red, tying stems with our tongues like we’re sixteen and curious if we’d be good at making out with our high school crushes. We wish for so much, dear summer. The juice of ripe pomegranates dripping down our palms and over-chlorinated swimming pools and pitiful attempts to suntan. We’ve had a darn hard spring, summer, so we place our trust in you.
We wish for bomb pops from sketchy ice cream trucks driven by oddball characters we distrust and Independence Day sparklers purchased in bulk from the corner firecracker stand even though patriotism is becoming a dead language, and rightfully so. We wish for the baptismal cool of mountain lakes and the intoxicating fury of ocean waves when we hold our noses and go under. We wish for an end to hospitals packed with undeserving souls and the hatred that permeates our people. Heal us, summer. Go easy.
Because we’re overdue with wishes and we’re spilling over.
Freshly squeezed farmers market blood orange lemonade.
Vinyl records that skip through open windows.
Less blood and more mercy.
All of us.