That’s what summer was like. Don’t you remember?


Suddenly, all those empty hours. You woke into nothing much — no dread of the coming school day, no pell-mell scramble to get ready to leave the house. Instead, chirping of birds and intimation of cool air. Your mother downstairs on the phone: obscure words, silence, more words. Where did you need to be? Nowhere. What should you be doing? Nothing. And for the moment, at least, who were you, really? No one, if being someone meant that you couldn’t lie on your side staring at the wall, loose-limbed, your thoughts skimming. From that last dream you’d had, in which you’d stopped running and finally turned to face the horror behind you, only to have it fade and vanish. To that girl whose crooked smile laid you bare, whose glinty eyes made you ache. To the places you might wander later that day, with never a thought the entire time for anyone who might be wondering what you were doing, with whom you were doing it, and whether you were safe and sound.



Edward Hopper, “Cape Cod Morning” (1950)


Cutoff blue jeans and sneakers. Fingers streaked with oil from a bike chain that wouldn’t stay on its sprocket. For you, the frayed world of humdrum workdays and commonplace tragedies didn’t yet exist. Everything was known, but nothing was familiar. The cracks in the pavement were a map to a secret kingdom. The darkness under the trees told a story. You were like a wayfarer in an ancient land, where nature itself had a numinous power to alter everything,  for unknowable reasons or for no reason at all.



Edward Hopper, “Gas” (1940)


In those summers, you were naked to the world and full of expectation. There was more, of course, much more to come. And because there was more, the thinness of the present moment was an empty jar, into which you could happily pour the itchy scab on your knee, the sourness of a ripening blackberry, the magazine photos of girls in bikinis. Nothing was especially important, nothing unimportant. Your life was your own. And if you had paused to consider, your life would have seemed to you to be a possession so precious that surely, somewhere out there, burned an immense star with your name on it, lighting and warming the black void of interstellar space.



Edward Hopper, “Eleven A.M.” (1926)


That’s what summer was like, back in those bygone days.



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