I’ve put my writing workshop on hold for the summer, but I miss the weekly writing we do. There’s something about honoring that time to write.
I do less without the group.
So today, I’m using a prompt I found elsewhere to write a few sentences to tuck away for a future story or poem.
The sizzling skin didn’t bother me, nor the roasting toes perched on the end
of the beach chair. I baked intentionally, thriving in temperatures most people can’t stand. I was a child of the sun, ignoring warnings of cancer and wrinkles, spending hours with a book propped, an occasional glance at the sea.
Even though I take care these days, slathering myself in sunscreen, I dread summer only for the whirring of air conditioners, temperatures that cause condensation drips on outside windows. Inside, I am chilled to the bone, air blasts like endless jabbing pins. I wrap myself in blankets, only to shed them outside where once again I find comfort in sweltering days and nights, when even my flannel pajamas feel right.