Just the smell of the summer can make me fall in love:

I wish I was on the beach right now with a hat and the New Yorker summer fiction issue.

I wish I was at my aunt and uncle’s backyard barbecue, with James Taylor playing in the background.

I wish I was seventeen, wearing cut-offs and kissing a boy under the front porch light.

I wish I was fourteen, swimming at night all by myself at the neighborhood pool.

I wish I was nine, dodging water balloons on the playground with my yearbook.

I wish I was five, waking up at the crack of dawn and riding my big wheel in my black-patent maryjanes and Dukes of Hazzard T-shirt.

I wish I was in my swimsuit and red rubber boots, watching the rain wash away my chalk drawings on the driveway.

I wish I was eating a popsicle on the kitchen floor, feeling the cold linoleum tile against the back of my legs.

I wish I was tan and lazy, the braids in my hair still damp from the lake two days before.

I wish I was on the deck of my parents’ friends’ house in Colorado, falling asleep before I counted all the stars.

I wish I was ten and fearless, sleeping in my little blue tent in the backyard during a thunderstorm.

I wish I was barefoot in the soft damp grass, catching fireflies with my cousin while the grown-ups talked until midnight.

I wish I was on my own balcony, under the little white lights on the red porch swing, drinking a beer and listening to Wilco.