a. raymond johnson

That is the feeling of summer.

It’s nearly 9 pm on a Friday night and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, in a bedroom that is not mine for much longer, that has been mine for many, many years — a large portion of that shared, but the third of it alone is the more recent recollection — and I am looking out the window at the church across the street, with its flashing neon OPEN sign that is illuminated only on Friday nights, for weekly community social nights, and I’m looking at the last few boys of the night, still playing basketball in the parking lot, against the hoop mounted on the wall, and the sun is long gone, twilight is long gone, but they still want to play, so they find an adult — a man most likely, a man who understands the need, but not exclusively men either, I have seen mom, sister do this on other weeks — with a car and he pulls it up and turns on the headlights, and these two beams shine up into my vision and cast shadows on the wall of my bedroom, and I look out at their source and see silhouettes of lanky and chunky teenage boys both, going for the ball, making shots, mostly missing, but going for it, going for it, going for it, they don’t want to stop, no matter that it is dark, no matter that bedtime is approaching, or maybe because of it.

That is the feeling of summer.