I lean over the freezer box in the local store to get to the very last ice cream at the bottom of the box. The outside of the box is warm against my legs, clearly working hard to maintain the glorious coldness inside.
I like to walk on the strip of grass running along our apartment building instead of on the pavement, just to feel the spring under my feet as a break from all the asphalt. Now there is hardly any grass at all. The media report that garden experts say not to water the lawn, since the grass will grow downwards in search of water and emerge from the drought period all the stronger. Does that work when there is hardly any grass left, only hardpacked soil?
Out on the farm there will be no crops at all this year. From a distance the grain appears yellow and ripe, but looking closer it is clear that it is all withered.
We flee to where there is water; the river, or the playground that channels small brooks and fountains from the nearby river to play in, and if we can’t face going that far, we bring the water to us.
I think about previous summers, when this kind of heat lasted a couple of days, or a week at most – and then we felt really lucky – and I think about being a teenager and enjoying the freedom of walking the city streets late in the bright summer nights, when everyone’s windows are open, and you can hear life going on inside.
And then it rained.