The Last Summers by Jewel Enrile

Summer has become nothing more than a prelude to rain, a brief window of time to allow for the rejoice of sunlight where mere drizzle is miraculous. March approaches, and summer creeps in, inch by inch, taking minute after minute of cold evenings. The glowing sunset fades into pale yellows and dark blues.

It doesn’t hold as much promise as before: the rolling waves, brief escapes, long trips, places you’ve never heard of before, family feasts with relatives whose strange faces claim to remember you. The smell of pool water. The music at the beach.

But this longing is hardly new. I know these thoughts have visited before. Who doesn’t fall for the illusion of summer? Who doesn’t pack more swimsuits than they should or more books they claim they’ll finish under the sun for light summer reading? Isn’t it just one of those things where wonder has an inverse relationship with age? Like Christmas. The older you get, the more contrived the festivities are.

But you still pretend to go along, plastering on a smile for the Christmas cheer. I know I still do. So when summer rolls around, you pack more swimsuits than you should and cram paperbacks into every available corner, hoping you get a chance to read. When things don’t go as they should — and they never do — you quietly unpack the unused swimsuits, the unopened books.

It could have happened. That’s the difference. Everything could have fallen into a perfect place, if only…

If only your aunt didn’t insist on taking you to this new restaurant. If only the sun wasn’t so harsh. If only you hadn’t fallen asleep right at sunset.

So in the end, you have enough hope for the next summer. The days are long, and anything could happen. You could meet someone, attend a private party, fall asleep on the shore while reading, win a sandcastle competition, try the most delicious food.

You could dream.

Maybe I’m an escapist. Maybe it’s the natural naivety that comes with youth and slowly wanes every year. Maybe it’s because the world is unraveling, and it always has been, and I’m sitting in front of a desk, making notes about plays to present to my class next week. Maybe it’s because — beyond tomorrow — I see no future forthcoming. I just know the days will come, and I will endure every single one.

How’d you spend the last summer you remember?

“I don’t really do summer stuff,” my boyfriend replied, eyes to the ceiling.

“No swimming?”

“We do go sometimes, but it’s not in summer.”

“We hiked,” I reminded him. “April.”

“Really?” I felt him looking at me, but I was busy looking through my own memories, counting back the years.

I remembered the hot sun, the coconuts from huts at the foot of the trail, the rocky paths. The breakfast at Jollibee at 3 a.m., when Cubao was just stirring awake. The view at the top. The rocks we sat on, too close to the edge, and my nervous smile for the camera.

“Was that the last summer?” There was still a note of disbelief in his voice.

I nodded. “2019,” I confirmed.

Soon after, we graduated high school, entered college in two different regions, and suffered too many breakdowns since. Before college, my family and I went to Pangasinan under the guise of celebrating my birthday. We went off-the-grid for a weekend on a self-sustaining farm in Rizal. We ate vegan food, swam in rivers, trekked in the mornings. There was a waterfall. Deep water has always scared me, and I didn’t know how to swim. But I floated in the water anyway, held up by a life jacket. The day seemed endless. Before we left, I wrote my name in the sand before the waves washed it away.

A friend no longer remembered when her last summer was. I watched her grasp for words before she shrugged and chuckled. It was a long time ago, she said. I turned to another group of friends, but most of them no longer remember. Or they don’t answer.

There’s a pattern with all the group chats my friends have: there’s a habit of collective longing. We sound like broken records of what-could-have-beens. But when our last memories of each other dry up — saying goodbye from the car, the unplanned lunch, the see-you-tomorrows that never came to fruition — we go back to asking what the others have been doing. The answers are routine. Working. Studying. Lost in some books. Lost in a new game. Lost in coping.

The phone has stopped buzzing.

The headlines get bloodier each week. I apply for jobs in a frenzy, cramming more into my school schedule, afraid of the consequences if something adverse happens.

I attended a dream analyzing group where the dreamer sees a wall of water. I’ve always had vivid dreams to the point I felt like I was living a double life whenever I was unconscious, but I start losing track of them each time I wake up. I wanted to go back, fill in my role in a surreal world, albeit through another person. A yellow, sandy path appears, and though they were afraid, they managed to run. The urgency propelled them forward until they saw glowing houses to seek refuge in.

I told the group it was a show of strength to still continue forward. Despite the fear, the overwhelming walls, the water threatening to swallow you up. I remembered myself floating, looking up at the sky, mentally making a note to come back next summer.

I want to believe there is much more to come. I could hug my friends tightly again, make plans for the summer, wander through different places, play pretend, fall in love with possibilities. Losing all our best moments is a myth, and there’s so much more to come. Repeat until true.

Before I sleep, I think of running to a glowing house.

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