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Summers in Lancaster

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Acoustic guitar sounds in the background, and I put my face to the bright and inviting sky. The windows are open, the breeze is slim and the sun warms my skin as if it were you touching me instead. The melody being plucked from the strings sounds like cow bells, sounds like summer, sounds like ice cream, sounds like barbeques. It sounds like home. The car drives slowly, the leftover sand in the tires crunching over and over onto the tar. The seatbelt is my safe haven. I lean into it; it feels as soft as a cloud. Your rough hands turn the dial on the radio. First there is only garble, but then, a light and easy melody begins to sift in from the speakers. I look at you, your baby blue gaze mirroring my black diamond one with simple words: Home. Paradise.



I turn and look out the window. The beach sprawls past me, the water sifts and hums and sighs, releasing endorphins that conclusively calm the beachgoers as they lay on their blankets and tan. My hand reaches out to fix the mirror, and the warm wind caresses my fingertips as a gentleman would a lady in Shakespearian times. The acoustic guitar fades from outside the car as we slip away from the noise, the rainbow colored beach balls, the sunscreen and the snack stands. We slip away from reality. All that’s left is the quiet strain from the radio trapped inside your baby blue ’70 Mustang Boss. The fender shakes as we wind our way down a little dirt path. I close my eyes and let the rhythm of the potholes take me far away. You cut the engine shortly after, and I slowly open my eyes and look at you. The sun is setting behind the green pine trees and it hits you in just the right way. You are my angel. It doesn’t matter where we are, I just know that I would never, could never, wish to be anywhere other than right here with you. You voice all of my emotion into a three word, three syllable phrase.



“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”





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