Summer is, by and far, my favorite season. Summer excites me, makes me tingle with anticipation. It fills me with endless possibility when I wake up every morning thinking about the extra daylight I now have at my fingertips. It bronzes my skin, lightens my hair, slyly coaxes me into painting my nails bright colors. It encourages me to stay outside longer, to embrace warmth as often as I can, to be surrounded by others equally buoyed by this inexplicable seasonally-attached happiness. It makes me so, so happy. So joyful, spritely. The child in me fiercely wants to grab a handful of Summer, and put it in a jar somewhere to be taken out again in the doldrums and snowy depths of Winter (obviously my least favorite season ever). I would put in it a fistful of grass, two scoops of ice cream, maybe a firefly (for special effects), some grains of sand, a loose tank top, my most frequently used pair of sunglasses, and the blueness in the sky. It would probably have to be a very large jar, actually. Or maybe even a room that I can visit over and over again.
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