Retiro Park. It’s June, but not the June I’m used to. There are no lightning bugs. They always define summer for me, and something feels a bit off with none here.

The air is tranquil, with a teasing breeze that lifts a few strands of hair off my neck. It’s vaguely chilly, but I don’t put on a sweater. It’s rare for me to feel this way in June, so I don’t want to let it go. I want to absorb it. I’m sitting on the cool grass, ants crawling over my legs, but I don’t care. And I don’t really like ants.

I know everything fades so it’s futile to try to hold on to any one moment or emotion – but I can’t seem to help myself. I’m grabbing on curiously, but when I look down at my hands, nothing is there. I look away.

I don’t have a blanket and grass tends to make me itchy. I lie down on my stomach. Easier to write that way. It’s never been a comfortable position for me, but I want it to be. So I do it, hoping one day I’ll look as graceful as all those Yogi stay at home moms who walk around with giant rocks on their left hands and really expensive workout clothes and have all the time in the world to bend themselves into unnatural positions.

The wind. It’s my favorite thing about being outside. I can’t explain my passion for the wind, or where it comes from. But I’m always looking for it.

I’m grabbing again. I don’t want to let go.