This is the kind of heat oppressive enough to stop time. The kind of heat that tethers you to where you’re sitting, unconsciously prods you to stop breathing, and makes you believe that time really has stopped. If it weren’t for the endless buzzing of the electric fan, I’d be inclined to believe that this moment will have no effect on things to come. Because this moment is a chunk of time in itself; disparate and still. But the fan buzzes away and a drop of sweat trickles from my scalp to my nape.
It’s summertime. I will be 29 in seventeen days. I am in that age where I need to count the days of the calendar to know how many days I have left before turning a year older. Simple arithmetic exercises are no longer a part of my life. Simple arithmetic exercises that, I reckon, are constants to the lives of the kids outside.
The kids outside are in that age where yelling is the best way to get your point across. They have just discovered that, contrary to what their parents said, a deity will not smite you if you curse. They are sure, however, that they’d get a mighty smack to the head if they curse in their parents’ presence. So they pepper their playtime war cries with curses. To the kids outside, time stands still as well. It’s summertime; the first day of school is far from their minds. It’summertime — the world stays the same and is very far away when they’re playing. Unfortunately, not far enough from their almost-29 neighbor.
I don’t like noisy kids and the heat. I am 28 but it is highly likely that I am turning 82 in seventeen days. We’ll see.