Texas Summers
Paola Brinkley
July 20, 2022
The humid evening air clings
to our sweaty legs and arms
sticky with mosquito spray
and Banana Boat sunscreen,
while we sit on the porch,
in white dirty lawn chairs
sucking on Blue Bell fudge popsicles.
Dad just mowed the lawn.
The smell of freshly cut grass
wafts as a small, coveted breeze
blows past our sweaty necks.
The magenta pink crape myrtles stand proud,
after a harsh winter and a hesitant spring,
Fuchsia knockout roses have a few dried-out petals,
but nonetheless surviving
in peak 100-degree weather,
like the Azteca grass, purple shrubs, and
small little orange mums,
perfectly manicured by my father’s green thumb.
The grass is so green, it almost looks neon,
but I often don’t notice its intensity
until I look back on pictures
of old fourth of July barbecues
and summer birthday parties.
The neighbor just finished
baling the last mound of hay.
The smell of sweet hay mixes
with the rich concoction of summer smells.
I imagine myself on a plane looking below,
and how the bales of hay might look like
fluffy yellow cotton balls on a manicured lawn,
and how rural Texas might have
a piece of wonder that I have never noticed before.
Golden yellow, navel orange, and a salmon-colored pink
color the sky, fading into a navy blue.
The sun slowly disappears behind the green oak trees,
a signal that the day is near end.
We lazily suck on the remnants
of the creamy fudge on our popsicle sticks,
hesitant to get up and head back into the house.
I close my eyes to bask
in the noises of chirping birds,
singing crickets, barking dogs, and croaking frogs.
Children whir past on their bikes, the clicking of fast
pedaling follows behind them, and my mom hums
a song that she heard on the radio.
I hear the ensemble of car doors slamming.
The neighbor and his recruits are done for the day.
The red tractor is abandoned on the lawn,
to be picked up tomorrow.
The warm air bounces like molecules on my skin.
I feel the prickle of the lavender plants
brush up against up my leg,
and the occasional fly that wonders in my space.
I feel the pieces of a puzzle fit together,
And I can sense my place
in this sticky, humid, hot, smelly,
yet beautiful world.
For a moment,
when I sit still enough to observe nature at work,
when the tenacious drone of the modern world
quiets enough to hear the echoes of the earth,
I am reminded that everything will be alright,
that my worries and problems
melt in Texas Summers.
Paola Brinkley is a graduate assistant at Lamar University. She teaches introductory freshman courses and tutors at the Writing Center. Her free time consists of writing poetry and reading from the large stack of impulsive purchases from the bookstore. Paola will graduate in December 2022 with her M.A in English.
