the summer that never was (502 words)

The smell of good memories hung over the sky outside the window. Everyone knows that smell, because its different for everyone. Like childhood and innocence wrapped into a named smell, like grass, a Capri Sun pouch, or a hint of flowers on the breeze. Fresh and clean, the smell of flora and fresh cut grass wafted into Sarah's room. The smell was accompanied by the sounds of posters rustling around their edges.

Sarah lay on her side, hand dangling off the bed as her eyes stared past the never ending sea of bright green waves. The illusion of a ocean was almost complete if she closed her eyes, the sounds of the huge trees' leaves rippling in the wind sounding like waves. The only thing that was wrong was the smell. Salt and water were missing from her nose, cries of seagulls didn't reach her ears. The image of a beach shattered as she opened her eyes to the overwhelming green. It was odd that it was so serene still, so comforting even as it broke her heart that it wasn't the familiar streets, the honking and rush of cars and the smell of the beach.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pushed aside thoughts of home... of being stuck here away from the traffic and smell of the sea. She stared out of the window at the tall waving grass where flickers of thoughts pressed in around her from all sides.

How was she getting to college? ....... Where was she going to college?.....What scholarships would she get?......Why hadn't she smartened up and taken the tests before now?.........How could she be good at a job when she wasn't even good at things she liked to do?.........What skill could she possibly have and not know about after all these years?..... Could she do this at all?

...Why did she have to feel so lonely?

Her shoulder shook as she pressed her face into the pillow. Why couldn't she have some neat little trick? Like a sport or talent wrapped neatly in a bow to use as a lure for colleges and to plan her life around in a neat straight line. But no... she couldn't sing, dance or act, she wasn't a runner or a swimmer or a volleyball player. She wasn't a beautiful model or a brainy wiz kid at science, math or literature. She couldn't compose songs, poetry or write books.

Reading, that's it. Mountains of books, all of the fantasy genre lined the shelves on the poster-covered walls. How many nights and days had she wasted with her moping around feeling sorry for herself?

The small wall she had built around her thoughts and blissful silence was quickly brought down, crumbling and eroding, as if a mighty gust was taking away soft sand. She cried, and upon the realization she was just sitting there feeling sorry for herself she cried even harder. The bed shaking beneath her as tearshot eyes looked out onto the endless sea of green.