By Mahika Mukherjee
I have been walking out of my cool room only to feel searing heat and remember: summer is
here. / Summer is here, and so is the annual heat wave. / Even dizzy, I’ve been dreaming of
chilled ripe mangoes as sweat beads under my tongue. / If they’re still green, a sprinkle of
sugar with chilli will get the job done.
I can’t wear any of my necklaces anymore. The sweaty metal leaves a heat rash, / red-puffy-
itchy, a spotted band around my clavicle and neck. / Even bras are now tedious. I
occasionally unhook them when no one is there.
Summer is one of the times I pity the dogs on tarmac. Noor—A pretty dog with eyebrows for
days / —licks my hand as if chasing the taste / of the apple I had after lunch. She slinks away
to the shadows like I wish to, / but instead I make my way through / the day gaining my tan.
This is new summer, / a phase like the new moon, creeping but invisible on my calendar. /
I’ve been dreaming of inflatable pools and algae blooms, though the sun has crisped grass to
gold and silver. / Summer is here, and it feels infinite—like it may stay forever.
Mahika Mukherjee is not a reader or a writer, but a secret third thing. She would tell you, but it is a secret after all. She ignores her Biology textbooks and crochets in her free time. You can read her musings at mahikamukherjee.com, and her evolution blog at mahikamukherjee.com/evolving-stories.
Instagram – @mahikamukherjee Twitter – @MukherjeeMahika
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