Lost Summers: A Fleeting Memory

The air still smells like chlorine and something vaguely citrus—probably a melted popsicle—even though it’s June. It hits you with this sudden, sharp awareness of how much has changed since last August. Last August felt…expansive. Like the world itself was stretching out before me, ripe with possibility, all that summer light slanting through the windows of Room 214 and making everything look just a little bit brighter. Now, looking back, it feels like someone slammed the brakes on time somewhere around late July.

It’s funny, isn't it? How something can feel infinite when you’re ten or twelve, tethered to that single, glorious season. The days bleed together, marked only by the shift in popsicle flavors and the gradual fading of the grass. There was no sense of impending deadlines, no need to “make the most” of things. Just…being. And those endless summer days are the ones I keep reaching for, a kind of hazy nostalgia that doesn’t quite translate to memory, but something close.

I think it has something to do with novelty. When you're young, everything is new—the taste of saltwater taffy on your tongue, the way the sunlight hits the creek after a rainstorm, even just figuring out how to properly operate a sprinkler. Each experience gets coded in your brain as significant, adding to that rich, layered tapestry of childhood summers. As an adult, you’ve seen so many sprinklers, tasted so much saltwater taffy, it feels like you're re-telling the same story over and over again.

It’s not just about remembering more either; it’s about how your brain processes those memories. Kids’ brains are wired to prioritize surprise and emotion—and that creates a stronger sense of time passing during those long summer stretches. As we get older, our brains tend to focus on the familiar, the routine, making periods of time seem shorter in retrospect.

I've been trying to be more mindful of it lately, this feeling of time slipping away. It started with Mateo, that little guy who just *gets* things—the way he builds elaborate castles out of blocks or how completely absorbed he is when exploring a puddle. His immersion reminds me that the best learning happens when you're not forcing anything, when you’re just letting yourself be curious.

It’s a lesson about embracing unexpected rhythms. It's frustrating to try to control my attention, to force myself to concentrate on something. But I've realized that sometimes, the most valuable lessons come from simply *allowing* things to unfold. Like this summer—it arrived and disappeared before I even really noticed it.

And then there’s the feeling of...loss, maybe? Not a dramatic loss, but a gentle one—the realization that those effortless summers are gone, replaced by schedules and obligations and the ever-present awareness that time is precious and finite. It's a weird kind of bittersweetness, knowing you can never quite recapture that unburdened joy again.

I don’t know if there’s any way to actually *slow* down time, but maybe just paying attention—really paying attention—to the small things will help me hold onto those fleeting moments, to remember why those summers felt so endlessly magical. Like that smell of chlorine and citrus – a tiny portal back to Room 214 and the feeling of possibility.