One summer when I was 15 I went to the country with my friends for what had been promised as a big, raucous party. How that unfolded is another story completely. But one day, unremarkable for its blazing heat and almost dry stillness, we went cherry picking on the farm of a friend. The trees were lined up like soldiers in columns that stretched so far out in all directions that eventually all we could see were blurs of green and red. It was early December, and it was as if nature had strung its own christmas decorations up for us to marvel at. The whole trip we had been acting like adults, dressing like adults, talking like adults, and suddenly faced with the prospect of climbing ladders and filling baskets - or mouths - we went wild with glee. Faces became smeared with cherry juice and white tee shirts forever stained. Cherries will always be about forgotten or mislaid youth. And summer! Of course. Heat that isn't oppressive so much as blanketing. Heat that is everywhere. Cherries, summer and being young.
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