My Favourite Season Summer May 2026

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.

School was a whole different life. This was the real one. And it was just beginning.

“Pool,” I confirmed.

We sat on the curb as the wind arrived, hot and frantic, flipping the leaves of the maple trees inside out. The first fat, warm raindrops splattered on the asphalt, smelling of dust and ozone. And then the sky tore open.

The air conditioner was a lie.

It wasn’t a rainstorm. It was a release. The thunder was a bass drum you felt in your ribs. The lightning cracked the sky into jagged white rivers. We didn’t run. We sat there, getting drenched to the bone, shouting over the roar of the water. It was terrifying and beautiful. The summer heat, the pressure of the long, bright days—it all exploded in a single, cleansing hour.

Summer is the season of three o’clock shadows and six o’clock sun. We played pickup basketball until our legs turned to rubber, the orange ball a sticky blur against the blinding blue sky. The blacktop was hot enough to fry an egg, so we played in bare feet, hopping from foot to foot like we were dancing on coals. When the final, desperate buzzer sounded—Sam’s victory roar echoing off the garage door—we didn’t go inside. We went to the hose. my favourite season summer

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.