I know why they crave summer

Maybe we'll ride the winter train back and forth between Courthouse Drive and this tree-less wonderland.

As long as you catch some fish and maybe some time.

Perhaps I'll see the mountain I've been staring at for five years.

Under the glass sky that's lined with sequins and smells like watercolors.

If they told me to paint one last picture, it'd be to you, mama, with the white bricks of your baby house and the lace curtains that dressed it on that steel, piny property in Alpine.

If they told me to play one last song, it'd be the Chopin Nocturne 8 that you wanted me to play at your funeral, dad.

And if they told me to go one last place, I'd go back to France and walk the empty shores with you, dad, telling stories from 1945 and whispering things about heaven.

If they told me to kiss one last boy, it'd probably be that one kid. He would be my 12th kiss and it's the best number to disappear on.

If I had one last sorry to give, it would be to my brother, whose weary edges come unglued. I'm sorry I fought back all those times, little boy. For taking the car. For not picking you up from baseball.

If I had one last thank you, it'd be to you again, dad.  For the books you burned into my skull, and the words you put in my head as we walked the streets of Amsterdam, you convincing me that I was too big for the white-walled town I settled in.

But my last hug is for the birdlike four-year-old with those blue eyes who wears too many dresses.

But I have a thousand words for a thousand smiles, 

because dying isn't bad and I'm not dying, I'm just going away for a while.

But I know why sandy shoes and soft hair allures them.

I know why saltwater stings eyes and chlorine and plastic are a heinous kind of beauty.

And I know why they love their sunglasses and the scent of lotion.

I finally know why they crave summer.

Because I used to think it came with the sun, but under smoky skies and behind whirring engines and windy parks, 

it's been summer for weeks now.