IT IS SUMMER: LOVE & LANGUAGE
Summer solstice. It is officially summer. The summer of love. Summer of 2026. Lying around in bed all morning, celebrating my first day off in what feels like forever. Butterflies laying low in my stomach as I prepare to see The Boy. Haven’t seen The Boy in what feels like a lifetime. Feels like I have known The Boy for a lifetime. Threw on light makeup and my bright yellow dress. Weather finally matching the season.
Summer is the season of language, does that make sense? More Spanish students roam the street, Korean pop artists I enjoy release new music, and everyone’s language sounds louder in Summer. Echoing and bouncing off the dead heat. Languages of all tongues and acts melt together in a cauldron. Desperately trying to understand one another as the Summer heat melts us closer together than ever before. Brought The Boy to the thrift shop I go to after work when I just crave a quick fun activity. Explored the ancient phones and lamps and found a Maßkrug, or stein in English slang. A traditional German glass used during the Oktoberfest. Loosely translates to stone or stoneware due to the sheer weight of the glass. Wondered towards the book section because what else would The Boy and I do. The Boy has been writing more than I lately, and I’ve only time to read his works. Don’t have time to do much of anything these days. Closest thing I got to reading recently was the report I was working on, and having [Redacted] read me her poetry. [Redacted] read me some of her poetry the other day as we sat on a bench outside the pub. Half empty, or half full depending on who you ask, pints of beer besides us as she browsed through her old poetry folder while we waited for [Redacted 2] and [Redacted 3] to return from the pub bathroom stalls. I really love [Redacted’ s] poetic voice. Every poem she read felt like a distance memory or blurry item in the distance, one you can recognise but not fully pinpoint. Slightly floating feeling towards the back of my head due to my cider, heeding to every word spilling out of her mouth, while two children run around the benches. Road covered in friends, families and coworkers having a pint as the sun finally shows its face. Beginning of summer. Traditional Irish music coming from the pub as the four of us lie and cheat during endless rounds of card games. If every day were like this, I would grab a pint in the sun after work with my friends, laughing and playing games together. Ordering a Chinese and walking home, laughing at [Redacted] for being ‘toasty’, or was it ‘toasted’? Regardless, if every day were like that, I would be the happiest girl in the world. I hope [Redacted] shows me more of her poems.
Back in the thrift shop. Found a selection of German books. Forced The Boy to read one of them to me. German has never been a romantic language to me; however, I stood there listening to him read and translate the description for me. I swear there wasn’t a more romantic language in the world. Every word that left his mouth was full of hard hours of practice, care and a never-ending thirst for more. The book was about love, religion, wait, no, maybe it was art, art as in crafts. Not quite sure. Couldn’t listen to anything other than him speaking. Languages are always something I have loved. All sorts of language, spoken or action. Language or accent. Fell in love with the streets of Kraków in early twenty twenty after hearing the locals speak. Got tingles down my spine as my Icelandic tour guide, who was named after some Biblical figure I cannot remember, spoke, his accent bleeding through every word. My point, if I even have one, is that I love hearing The Boy speak German.
The Boy finally brought me to the pier. This goddamn pier I have heard so much of but never seen for myself. A few weeks ago, I started painting this exact pier for The Boy based on one photo he sent me. Finally seeing it felt like an unjustified reward for the unfinished painting left on my desk. The walk to the pier is one full of ducks, shade and memories flashing every time the sun hit a certain angle, despite the fact I had never been here before. Reminded me a lot of Our Lady’s Island. Told The Boy all about that Holy Land, the swans, the pilgrimage path, and specifically left out the part where my last joyful memory with my Nana is buried. Told The Boy I think he would enjoy it there, as I played with the ring he had just given me hours prior over an iced matcha. Made it to the pier, hand in hand. Immediately noticed a lack of swans. Whenever The Boy and his friend come here, they play music for the swans. “The swans love Bob Marley, don’t you know?” Basking directly under the sun as we kicked our feet over the edge. Everything led up to this. The Boy handed me a poem he wrote for me, and I fell in love all over again. I mean it. Felt it tingle and spread down my spine. Love languages. Had him read me the poem. I love when people read their writings to me. Makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Every callback to us and our memories brought something I can’t describe to my chest. Kept it protected in my handbag. Treasured it. Treasure it. Laid on that pier for hours. Tracing ‘I love you’ into the palm of his hand. Love languages. I cannot speak any language other than English. It’s unfortunate, as English should not be my first language, but eight hundred years of colonisation has that effect. However, I can trace ‘I love you’ into his palm until my fingertips bleed. Languages don’t always have to be spoken, you understand.
Around hour two, the sun began to get to us. Sat on a bench as we tried to create rhymes by bouncing off one another. Constantly trying to keep the game going so as not to lose. The Boy tried to rhyme fences with photosynthesis, and that was when I realised we had both gone mad. The Boy would argue I went mad when I had not one, not two, but three staring competitions with the sun. Couldn’t help myself. The way the sun was staring down at me instead of looking towards the moon, which was beautiful in view against the clear blue sky, felt wrong.
Returned home after what I can only describe as an eventful meal of teenagers causing chaos in the fast-food place. Got wine with [Redacted 2] in the shop below our cosy college apartment. Sat around playing Mario Kart and answering questions from [Redacted’s] list of 30 questions. Summer evenings. Joyful times. The type of evenings I’ll look back on when I’m older and wish to be back here. Held back a smile as [Redacted] and [Redacted 3] spoke to each other in Spanish while playing Mario Kart, as I wrote of my love for languages. Summer is the season of language, you understand.
Sunburnt and tired. Crawled into bed. Busy next few days. Always busy. Always grateful. It is Summer after all. It is summer, and I am the luckiest girl alive.