Summer

I wonder now what I thought I would be someday twenty years ago. I'm pretty sure I had dreams of being a teacher or a marine biologist, that was a popular one, which must have been why I even thought it at the time, considering I hate everything about fish except catching them and eating them. Not in that order of course, more like the kind of fishing where your dad baits your hook for you, catch, release, and then you go out for sushi or pick up some Gordon's on the way home. Once I got to High School I had visions of being an art dealer at Christie's in London or New York, or curator at the Met. If you would have told me I would have finished a Masters in Social Work at 30 years old and would currently be looking for a job working in the inner city of some metropolis or another hoping to help the un-salvageable save themselves, or at least stay alive another year, I would have said, "social work, what?" And yet, here I am, far from the inner sanctum of an art museum, and up to my elbows in large amounts of humanity. I made the right choice, I guess the question is what do I want to do now that I'm here? What can I do?

I was drowning in my own thoughts of all this grown up crap tonight as I drove Margie home from a party; windows down, listening to music, and out of a silence I was unaware of she said, "I love summer." I stopped brooding for a minute, relaxed my shoulders, sank back into the drivers seat, and with a grateful smile replied, "yeah, me too."