Molly's Summer

She hated the noise and smell of

the city streets in summer.

Car engines buzzing and roaring.

Charred and smoky asphalt,

the hot tar sizzled odor she

couldn’t shake from her nostrils.

She missed the sound of

the brook near her grandma’s

place, the rustling stillness of a

summer wind gracing the long

fields, the scent of flowers and

sweet pies at the fair.

A bus passed Molly and she

coughed in a cloud of diesel

exhaust. The air was thick and

grey.  The constant trumpeting

of car horns and wah-wahing sirens

piercing every echoed city canyon.

She longed for the sun; un-obscured

by the concrete pillars of business and

trade. She felt sad to walk in endless

shadows across long stretches of

hot city sidewalks. It was a weight

she bore heavily on her hunched shoulders.

She missed her jean shorts and tee-shirts,

running wild with Danny as they played

for hours near the old wood tree fort

near the Old Mill. They chased butterflies and

fireflies, and were never swallowed by any

long shadows.

Her city skin was pale, like she’d never once

been a tanned child of the sun. Her Danny,

out in the field, tanned, toned, laughing as

he sat on the back of a pick-up truck with a

cool lemonade in his hand.  Molly had an

iced Mocha latte something she’d spilled

when nudged by a rude businessman.

The city, crowded, serious, grey.

Molly hoped she could get out soon.

Hoped she could get back to her

open fields, sun dresses and barefoot

summer strolls guided by moonlight

and twinkling stars.