If I had to describe you, I’d describe you as a short Summer
Fact one: I hated Summer.
My most distant memories were that, I feared summer.
The heat intimidated me.
My mom took me out to the beach once on a warm Summer.
She, herself, had mixed feelings about summer.
Then, I clanged on to her so hard because the Sun refused to look away from me.
Mom made the night rise earlier.
Fact two: You came and went.
I heard people talk.
Summer meant fun.
Fun meant drugs.
Drugs meat jail, I learnt later.
Which is where you went hiding in Autumn, Winter and Spring.
Fact three: Summer always complains.
When I refused to answer Summer’s calls to go hiking, Summer would constantly message me to come out to go for a swim.
When I tell Summer that I hated the Sun, he’d weep about how I loved all but him.
How can I love the Sun when my name means Shooting Star?
Fact Four: I don’t have one.
Insignificantly,
Shooting Star,
Your only daughter.
