It feels like I have always been waiting. I’ve never actually taken a breath fully; I always stop just short of exhaling correctly. Waiting to be better, waiting for happiness as if it will happen upon me.
Summer is here. It is indisputably my favorite season. Every poem I write and memory I hold close comes back to summer. The persistent scent of sunscreen, days in the sun, baby hairs slick against my neck, the way sadness doesn’t feel overwhelming. My favorite books, shows, and movies linger on early mornings, dancing in kitchens while cutting strawberries and biking barefoot through quiet streets lined with houses that all look the same. Maybe I’m too concerned with aesthetics. The season is distinct in its image; it captures a version of myself I can only be a few months out of the year. Who am I when it’s fall, or winter, or spring? Certainty alludes me unless it is June, July, or August. I love myself better in the summers.
My love for summer has become more of a habit than a feeling. It had more magic once. I used to think the breeze was created by fairies. I rode my bike through the sprinklers like it was holy water. Even as I’m older and it’s filled with work and summer classes instead of carefree afternoons at my great-grandmother’s house, I’d like to think there’s a magic in tilting my head up towards the sun.
Here are three pieces written by me over the years in the summer, about the summer. I had always meant to edit, post, or submit them somewhere, but I think here is the best place for them.
summer ‘21: late lunch
I wake up at eleven and call it early in the morning. Sleep half the day away, I call it a small mercy when I remember to eat lunch. There’s always a better poem, better person-- it’s never me. So I watch Netflix while scrolling through Instagram. It’s the golden age, shiny cage. Take the stage and tell me what will be better tomorrow. Tomorrow comes and I finish another season of New Girl. Pretty girl on Instagram wakes up early to go bike riding, she watches the sunrise from her roof. Pretty girl never forgets to eat lunch or to take a shower or wash her face. It’s the golden age, and she’s the sparkling centerpiece. It’s the golden age, she takes the stage and says tomorrow is shining, never looming.
^This poem is unfinished, I never knew how to end it but I knew it wasn’t done. There’s my two-year-old draft regardless.
summer ‘22:
The lollipops from summer ten years ago left a sticky residue in the corner of my bedroom. When I think of summer it is like this: me with those pelican legs, apron around my waist, flour sprinkled on my nose. I used to hoard lollipops because they were sweet like Abuelita’s laughter but now they’ve rotted into something unrecognizable. I’m still hoarding lollipops. Still shrinking in the hopes of fitting into pelican girl’s clothes. And really it’s not so much I want to be her; I just want to live her life. Lately I've been asking my dog if she’ll miss me when I move away, and when she blinks but doesn’t nod I weep. Abuelita’s house is painted a different color and the front door isn’t open to me so music doesn’t spill out into the street. I used to dance in her kitchen like the whole world was mine. Now I’ve grown up and I’m wasting my breath on the scent of sweetness from a lifetime ago.
The next one is another one from last summer; this one I actually did submit and it got rejected (understandably, I like it a lot less in retrospect. I was just kind of trying to experiment with structure a little bit).
Hatchling
Ⅰ
This summer began with me prancing on beaches.
After nearly trampling a turtle’s nest
I cried & painted my walls green
for the second time.
(don’t turtles have a hard enough time making it to sea
for me to almost lower the odds?)
Ⅱ
My reflection in the sand sneers at me.
“What did the turtle do to you? A boy doesn’t want you
and that’s not an excuse." Summer’s problems sicken me.
The paint chips; I belch after eating it.
(nine years ago i saw a turtle hatch
for the first time. the paint in my room
had just finished drying. despite the miracle
occurring! the paint still dried & the turtle still survived!)
Ⅲ
Hatchlings make promises to return
and make good on their word. Plaster settles
in my stomach; I can’t digest summer
while I’m still living it. Nothing has meaning
in the moment. In retrospect
(the turtle
almost dies & again! the paint dries.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about magic. It’s not just a word, an idea. More than anyone, I think creatives believe in magic. It’s a common thread connecting musicians, visual artists, photographers, and writers. A few nights ago, I attended an open mic night. I haven’t been to one in around a year, and I forgot how beautiful they are and how much I enjoy them. There were musicians that wrote their own songs and poets performing spoken word. Everyone had their own styles, muses, and inspirations. What connected us was a passion for art in every form we can find it.
There was a man and a woman that wore matching blue and white Hawaiian shirts. When they went up, the man held a guitar, and the woman held a fiddle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fiddle in person, much less heard one. There were no lyrics. They just harmonized and played in tune, each guitar strum complementing the fiddle. The energy filled the whole coffee shop. Everyone was smiling from ear to ear, clapping in beat, doing a little jig. There were no words, but I swear I heard an entire conversation. It was beautiful. I saw magic.
Often, I forget why it is I write in the first place. It’s not to prove I can do it, it’s not to prove true a dream that I’ve held for years, and it’s not for more bylines in ‘respectable’ magazines. I write because I believe in magic no matter how far I am from summer, fairies, or my great-grandmother’s kitchen. I believe in being passionate about life no matter the cost.
Somewhere along the line, all creatives have been told that we can’t, we shouldn’t, it’s not realistic, there’s no point. We perform in small coffee shops and publish our poems in small literary magazines, not necessarily because we believe in ourselves, but because we believe in art’s ability to connect people. We see the magic. Maybe that’s too idealistic, and perhaps not all writers feel that way. But I feel that way, especially after the open mic I attended.
I admire all artists for their passion, dedication, and talent. I think it’s so beautiful. Speaking of, the section where I share ‘some of my favorite reads’ below features some works that I’ve found in the past month and loved. I have this section in every issue of ‘Depends on the Day,’ but I never really talk about it. Of course, I don’t expect everyone who reads this newsletter to read every short story and poem I recommend, but if you’re ever looking for something to read, I suggest looking there. There are so many incredible artists and writers I admire so much, and so many literary magazines that are publishing beautiful voices and have such great missions. Just wanted to say a few words on that since I’m talking about how much I admire writers, art, and writing :) I figured I should put a little extra spotlight on the works I talk about right here that are incredible.
some of my favorite reads
Summer, You’re a Boneyard a poem by Gustavo Hernandez
In case you missed it the first time, she confesses again , Flash Fiction on the Flash Frog by Salena Casha
A Problem of Other Minds , Fiction on Overheard by Molly Andrea-Ryan
to my mother, spinning , a poem on Dollar Store Mag by Julien Griswold (pg.16)
The Shapeshifter’s Apprentice , Fiction on The Fantastic Other by C.N. Wheaton (pg.6)
The Nurse’s Lament , Nonfiction on Autofocus by Lexi Kent-Monning
books i’ve read may-june
Book Lovers by Emily Henry
The Summer of Broken Rules by K.L Walther
The Summer I Turned Pretty by Jenny Han
Your Driver is Waiting by Priya Guns
By the Book by Jasmine Guillory
The Surrender Theory by Caitlin Conlon
some songs i’ve been listening to
Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan
SITTING IN TRAFFIC by Ruel
608 by Carlie Hanson
I Had A Choice by Sun
Always by Babygirl
If you’ve read this far, thank you! I know I didn’t publish this exactly when I said I would, but I’m glad to have ‘Depends on the Day’ for writing that doesn’t have to be published or submitted somewhere. That being said, if you’ve made it this far, I’ve got cool news. I’m working on a chapbook right now; I actually have been for a while! I kind of alluded to this (really heavily) in the last issue, but I just wanted to share. You’ll hear a lot more about it soon. Additionally, I’ve been posting on my writing TikTok more (barf, I know). The @ is niamwrites if you’re interested. In the meantime, you can keep up with my writing on Instagram or comment or message me about anything you read in this issue that you liked. Wishing you magic wherever you can find it and sunny days that fuel your soul! Have a magical summer, I’ll talk to you soon :)