Tonight my teenager was driving us home. She was saying how much she likes the nighttime. The rain, the darkness, the reflection of light on the windshield. Her saying that reminded me of summer nights in Houston. How warm and thick the air was. How the June bugs would collect at the beginnings of streets, just at the edges under the street light. You could sit on a curb in shorts and a tank top and not be cold. You might even be sweating. If you were smoking and you exhaled, the smoke would hang in the air, otherworldly. When you finally went inside for the night the cold air-conditioning of the house would be shocking. Goosebumps would rise on your skin. Once a week the bug truck would drive around the neighborhood at about midnight and spray for mosquitoes. Sometimes I’d be awake in bed and hear the hiss of the truck in the silence of the night. Listen to it drive the curve of the cul-de-sac. Far away. Close. Far away.
A few years ago we had the pleasure of staying a week during the summer in Annapolis, Maryland. One of our kids was at the Saint John’s summer camp and me and our other kid were out exploring the area. It was so unbelievably hot and humid. I could no longer differentiate my hot flashes for reactions to climate: I was just hot and sweaty all the time. At around ten at night, we’d go outside, into the still hot but sunless night, walk Main Street with everyone else and eat ice cream. It’s something we don’t do in Seattle. We go to Molly Moon’s, yes, but in rain coats sometimes and always everyone clutters together on the sidewalk or in the shop. There’s no promenade. There’s no organized wandering with hundreds of other people. There’s not a sense of community. It’s more random. It’s still good. All of it is good. I like all the difference. xo