I haunt the summers of my youth: skulking in the shade along the shoreline, lurking just outside the glow cast by beach fires, spying on my young self, nervous, aching, sitting with a boy on a beach at sunset. Like a hungry ghost I fixate on details, search for signs I might have missed that would have permitted me inclusion in the tribe that was running quickly ahead of me towards adulthood. Somehow knowing that time was brief, that life didn’t extend forever. The kiss never came. Summer never filled me, it just created more hunger. My inner primitive girl-child desperate for some kind of sacrament to guide me into the world of womanhood that seemed to be closing its door to me. Every moment slipping away, each small loss boring deeper, eventually a cavernous hole I would never be able to fill. Summer, now, an endless dream of adolescent longing with all its unnatural, overripe joys in saturated colour.