Some people will say that 75 and sunny is the perfect weather. I prefer things warmer. 83 and a little breezy is what I like.

I remember summer afternoons at my father’s house. He would sit on the porch, on that old, white wicker chair. Miles Davis played on inside the house, loud enough to be heard down the street. My father sat in his chair, bobbing his foot as he pulled thoughtfully on a cigar.

And then there was me. Eight years old and happy. I lay in the grass, soaking up what was left of its water. The smell of my father’s cigar, the smell I love, the smell that takes me home, rocked me into a stupor. The jazz lulled me sleep in a bed of drying grass and ladybugs.

Ladybugs, ladybugs.

I was catching ladybugs. And dragonflies. And butterflies. I was catching heat. I could catch my death and die happy there in the grass, with Miles in my ears and grass in my hair and smoke on my clothes.

Summer makes me happy. That nostalgic feeling. The feeling that I am making simple, sleepy memories.