I know that a summer-boy will come along; he'll thaw my limbs and melt me sober. Sweep up the woods that are slowly edging toward my battlements. The leaves will turn from crunching to a softness underfoot and the autumn change will fade. Spring will bring with it the smell of winds from high seas, the late afternoon dinner preparations and a lakeside of freshly mown grass.
We'll jump fences and fish from jetties owned by vacationing locals and we'll pool our money in for a dinner of hot chips and a couple of $2 lotto tickets to try and hit the big one. (Your Aunt Margey won the big one off the scratchies you got her as a birthday present. The Christmas turkey that year was something else; nothing like the normal Ingham in-the-box business we had previously.)
The local kids'll ride their bikes around the carpark and press for false land rights over the swing sets we've laid claim to. And the sun will be the greatest wingman I'd ever had.
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