August makes me think of this song. And that song makes me think of every childhood summer. It seemed from June until the first day of school I did nothing but swim and ride bikes and make forts and stay up long into the night reading. There was powdered lemonade and plastic lanterns strung up over the picnic table. Camping trips way up north. Perpetually bruised knees. And there’d always be beach trips, where we’d arrive when the sand was cool and the sun low and stay until a picnic dinner. I’d go back to school in September laden with freckles, full of ice cream and ready to take on the world.

Not every summer was idyllic. There was the July we all had chickenpox. And the August the dog died. But by and large, those long, languid, analog days were some of the happiest of my life. And sometimes when I’m awake far too late reading (because it’s far too hot to sleep), I feel temporarily 12. So I might have to buy some powdered lemonade, for old time’s sake.