The unforgiving sun beats down on the back of my neck, and I can feel a thin sheen of perspiration on my forehead. It's all new and amazing for a while, but then it changes, gradually, so you never know that it has until you're sick of it.
As I walk home, I hear the crunch crunch crunch of the dried, parched grass underneath my feet. The earth is cracked. The dirt looks too light, like it's been bleached from the rich brown it should be. I remember the Four Seasons; my dad used to play it in the car all the time. He hated Summer. Summer was suffocatingly slow, with only a burst of activity here and there, fleeting, quickly choked into sluggishness.
I understand.

The grass will grow back, I think. It always does, bright and defiant in its verdant return.
My dad always used to say that summer killed the weeds. The real grass lives, returning in the spring, fresher and greener than ever.
With a smile, I run home, my shoes pounding the asphalt with each step. It 's different now. Pound pound pound.
Yes, I understand.