I had a lovely summer, finally with some free time and I graduated from college, so I’d chalk that up to a good time.
Church Street milling with people mid day is where I found myself, disappearing into the throng, walking with no place to go until I met a friend and we sat ourselves down to catch up on everything we’d been missing, long been kept from enjoying time off, no pressing deadlines or harried hellos and goodbyes. We’d been through some hell of a ringer and came out clean on the other side. And in that late afternoon, we sat outside a cafe, smelling of cinammon in the air. The smell of nicotine intermingled as we sucked on pale white cigarettes, vestiges of lipstick with names like wine festival and bold crimson caressing the tips. And I remember thinking, summer smells so sweet.
 Light filtered through kaleidoscope tinted sky lights, and the light buzz of beer was coloured with reds, blues and bright yellows. Behind me were little wooden houses, brightly painted and in rows perched on shelves lined till the ceiling where the colours of the stained glass danced upon them as if for tiny little people. And on many occasions, we all feel tinier than we are but with a couple of beers in hand and bowling drunkenly afterwards, the brightly coloured bowling balls sloping ever always to the right, we could not have felt any bigger than at that very moment.
Trees blooming with pink flowers are such a sight to see and one of my favourites, even when a tram is zipping me by so fast I couldn’t hold on to take a picture fast enough. Thankfully I did. And with a lake spread out before my eyes and fishermen waiting for the long haul not too far away, I felt like a tiny dot among the crowd, in a way that made me realize we’re all trying and we’re all okay.
The Tea-Infused Typewriter 