It's summer again.

Against all odds, a beam of light has traveled ninety-three million miles in eight minutes and twenty seconds to embrace me. The skin on my back cooks through holes of a t-shirt well-loved. The lavender perfume of yesterday's detergent comes undone by today's sweat, blood, and asphalt.

On days like this, the streets never burned so hot. The stench of fresh blacktop permeated everything, chasing you into the house, hidden under fingernails and streaked on denim. When you sucked in through your teeth you could even taste it. It promised bike rides with no potholes, and days off from school. It meant laying in your bed with the window open, shades half-closed, listening to cars drift by. 

What do you know about Raiders caps, white socks with tan-soled Vans, black hoodies when it’s ninety degrees out? What do you know about being affectionately called chino by your neighbor’s uncles down the street? What do you know about stashing snacks in your bag at Walmart when no one was looking, running out of abandoned buildings when security comes?

Twelve years and nine thousand kilometers later, it’s still me.