edited the above...sorry...it was gross the way it was written before.
I remember childhood summers at my grandma’s house. We would run through her yard and see tomatoes, grape vines, and fire flies. We walked barefoot all over the neighborhood. The grass on the sole of our feet felt divine and the warm concrete warmed our bones to the core.
The sun was as bright as it ever was or could be. These were the days of the first kiss and finding playboys thrown out in the dumpsters. We had to watch ourselves at the park. There were broken bottles here and there and a giant manhole was placed adjacent to the Chicago River where we used to play and run.
The smell of summer was as beautiful as anything. We smashed flowers on our hands and brushed our fingertips under our nostrils – god bless us. That was part of the overall scent of summer, just a small part too.
There were woodsy odors by the pine trees that grew brains out the side. They were really spots of fungus on the side of the bark but they looked eerily like brains. We were afraid to touch them.
Some whiffs were not so pleasant. We caught whiffs of bums, dog shit, and indiscernible stenches. But they too were pleasing as pungent props on a glorious backstage of a summer season. Broken bottles, playboys, kisses, and games of hide and seek were all wonderful sites to behold like the Grand Canyon especially after a brutal Chicago winter and in light of the hours we spent indoors hibernating.