Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
All Summer Long
By Deb Fenwick
All summer long, busy house sparrows flit in the eaves of our house. Each morning, they collect tiny twigs and things I rarely notice from the ground and end up making a life with them. Seedlings sprout and reach toward a warm, welcoming sky. Children ride bikes and screech with delight. No hands! Look at me! Watch! When the sun sets at nine o’clock, those same children, liberated from the rigidity of school night routines, line up for ice cream with wide, wild eyes as fireflies send signals across the garden. The crickets just keep chirping.
All summer long, there’s lake swimming in midwestern waters that have been warmed by the sun. And better still, there’s night swimming where a body, unfettered by the weight of gravity, gets its chance to remember what it’s like to glide through dark mystery.
My feet don’t touch the bottom of blue-black water, and it’s just the right amount of uncertainty. I plunge into the cool deep and open my eyes to see almost nothing. Almost. Everything is opaque—shape-shifting while bubbles rise to the surface and my body moves through muffled sound. Everything I think I know in the daytime fades away under the water’s surface. When I come up for air, my eyes squint and adjust to July moonlight. Soft water splashes as I rise to stand on coarse sand. Maybe I’ll hear a screech owl. Not children screeching. They’re all asleep now. The flies send signals, and the crickets just keep chirping.
Deb Fenwick is a writer from Oak Park, Illinois, who spent many years learning and teaching in public school settings.
