This piece was finished over the Juneteenth holiday weekend. It began as a simple draft; something I was writing about the experience of living behind a window, watching summer unfold without me. I felt like an observer more than a participant.
But because of many of you and your encouragement to experiment with a different writing style, this is what it became.
Earlier this week, maybe it was the stillness, or the heat pressing through the glass, but I found myself craving a slice of fresh-baked country pie. The kind you’d find in a small-town shop off an old Missouri dirt road.
I’m a proud Missourian, and my thoughts drifted back to the countless roadside stands I used to pass. Sometimes on the way to work. Sometimes looking for a fishing spot. Sometimes just getting lost with Maria, because we could.
Those stops weren’t really about the fruit or the pie. They were about something harder to name.
Freedom, maybe. The kind that lives in detours and small decisions.
The kind you feel in the sun on your arms, gravel under your sandals, and time that doesn’t have to be managed.
That’s what I found myself missing most.
The Edges of Summer
This window has become my witness.
I sit beside it again today,
where light filters in and summer waits just out of reach.
The hum of the AC pushes back against the thick breath of the day.
Outside, children shriek with poolside joy,
voices bouncing where mine once would have been.
Birds trace careless arcs across the sky.
The rain softened our summer for a while,
blurring its edges just enough to forget the heat.
But it’s returning now,
with heat,
with humidity,
with longing.
Inside, it’s harder.
I’ve tried to stand a few times.
The dizziness rushes in too fast.
It’s not worth the fall.
Not now.
The doctors and I made a deal,
a longer horizon.
One that demands patience,
even if it means missing cookouts,
skipping barefoot walks in the woods,
passing another season of lemonade stands by.
Summer used to mean roadside stands,
lifting peaches to my face,
testing their weight,
their softness,
their scent.
I miss that ritual more than I expected.
Out on the back roads, I know they’re there:
honor boxes sitting in the heat,
coffee tins or old toolboxes with slits cut in the lid,
jars of jam, bundles of wildflowers,
peaches fresh from the tree.
No cashier, just trust.
Leave a few dollars, take what you need.
I used to stop for them.
Not just for the fruit,
but for the freedom,
to turn the wheel without a plan,
to pull over just because I could,
to feel the sun on my arms,
to walk across gravel in sandals,
to be part of the world without measuring the cost.
Strawberry season is nearly gone.
The last of them sit soft in their cartons,
too ripe, their sweetness almost heavy.
Soon, watermelons will take their place,
stacked high in pickup beds off the shoulder of back roads,
green skins streaked with sunlight and road dust.
I imagine blue tarps stretched for shade,
slices waiting on paper plates,
pink flesh glistening, seeds scattered,
juice slipping down the fingers of anyone who stops.
I hear the bees buzzing, too,
how they find the sweetness before we do,
dancing over the rinds, slow and certain,
drawn to the sugar, undeterred by swats or shooing.
I want to be there for that.
Not for the taste alone,
but for what it means,
to stand again without thinking,
to chase a craving,
to say yes to the open road and not have to ask my body for permission.
But today, I stay inside.
Summer is out there,
passing without me,
the windows framing not just a view,
but a boundary I cannot yet cross.
The fruit won’t wait.
It ripens, softens,
then moves on,
as all things do, without ceremony.
But freedom,
that’s what lingers.
Not the peaches,
not the melon,
but the reach itself,
barefoot, sun-warmed,
without hesitation or cost.
Maybe next year,
maybe then I’ll step through the door,
a little shaky,
but certain enough
to follow the hum
of summer
back to the roadside,
where freedom waits,
quiet and golden,
like fruit ripened in the sun.
Beautifully expressed. You will taste that freedom again, and it will be even sweeter than before.
Beautiful writing, Chris. I'm oddly reminded of deployment, and that weird disconnect where you're stuck somewhere you don't want to be while the world outside moves on. We're all praying and looking forward to your reunion with health and freedom.