My Favourite Season Summer _best_ -

Around nine o’clock, the air grew heavy. The crickets stopped chirping. A hush fell over the neighborhood. Then, a flicker of light behind the hills, too brief to be lightning, more like a camera flash from God. Sam would look at me, eyes wide. We’d grab our skateboards and race to the highest point of the street—the old fire road.

Afterward, the air was clean and cold. The streets ran with rivers of rainwater. And the smell—that impossible, sweet, wet-earth smell—was the smell of being alive. my favourite season summer

I grinned, grabbed my gloves, and slid down the stairs’ banister, burning the back of my thigh. It hurt. It was worth it. Around nine o’clock, the air grew heavy

The municipal pool was a miracle of chaos. It smelled of chlorine, coconut sunscreen, and cheap hot dogs. It was a roiling mass of splashing kids, where the lifeguard’s whistle was the only law. We didn’t swim laps; we waged underwater wars, holding our breath until our lungs screamed, wrestling for a single, sunken quarter at the deep end. We flew off the high dive, not as boys, but as Icarus, arms wide, stomach dropping, before slapping the water with a crack that left red welts on our chests. It was glorious. Then, a flicker of light behind the hills,