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  • Sasha Uvarova

You're Gonna Love It -- Summer


What calls me back to a summer I can’t remember?

Swinging trees, swishing tall grass and mourning doves.

What part of me cries at the sound of cicadas and ocean waves?

Benevolent, silent, irreparable and hopeful; I am relieved. I am displaced.


I used to cry leaving any place I’d attach to. Every classroom, every summer vacation, every mountain was something that I grieved.


Fountains were meant to run through.

Gum was meant to be chewed, books were meant to be read.

And everything came easier, because you resisted control but relied on it.

Overcrowded trains, cigarettes and trash, the code to the door I can’t remember.

What calls me back?

More time on the playground, a trip to buy sausage, the route to the park past the post office.

Playing chess, visiting the springs, the museum of insects.

Mineral water, my great-grandma’s braid, overbearing and soul crushing heat.


I’ll close my eyes and trace the path to the dumpster: left on the path, and past the playground until the water in the bay is visible. I know I’ll never have to take the trash out again.


What was once a small town, that relished in its peace, has been pulled and expanded and kneaded until it changed. It’s too expensive now, and my grandma’s too old. What used to be my dad’s summer home is empty without his grandma and her tapestry rugs. What used to be theirs became mine, and what was mine isn’t anymore.


Folding apricot pastries with my grandma on an unusually rainy day.

Listening to the cassettes in my uncle’s car break and unwind.

What calls me back to a summer I can’t remember?

Stray cats, milk saucers, dusty alleys.

Playing cards, midnight crabs, trespassing.

Friendship, family, culture.

What’s made me different? What’s made me worse?


I meet a lot of places now, and leave them too. I cry when I remember what it used to mean to me.


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