I like summer. It makes me happy. It makes me feel alive and optimistic for the future. I don’t get sad in the summer. I don’t get lonely. I am not, usually, depressed by the warm air, the gorgeous breezes, the sun-dappled water, or the grand mountains. Summer here is an amalgam of childhood memories and later-life remembrances, all at once ten and then twenty-something. My soul lives here; it haunts the side streets and corner benches of small towns along the line. It grows old at the soda fountain. It rests by the stream. I need not grandeur nor renown; I have the summer.