Summers are hard and remind me of death because this is when it all happened so fast. Between the months of June and October but July was especially hard. Not just for me, we all remember how hot it was that summer. The steam that came off the pavement after the slip n slide. The seat belt burns. The body remembers everything we’ve tried to forget, so at night, my littlest shakes me awake, afraid I will die in my sleep. Afraid I am already dead. She crawls into bed with me and I hear myself mumble “I’m still here I’m still here...” I will not die, I tell her, it’s just summer so it feels like I will. Please go back to sleep. Let’s meet somewhere in our dreams. *** In the summer we both have birthdays, him and me, and mine is sometimes on Father’s Day. This year it wasn’t and I was relieved. I get older every summer and he does not. And this year I am only three years younger than he was when he died. That feels like something, although I can’t explain what. He used to be seven years older than me and soon enough — if I’m lucky — I’ll be the older one. It’s why I feel grateful for new lines around my eyes but I also want to hide them behind bigger hair. Maybe I’ll get Botox now, I think. I’ve been holding off all these years because I have daughters, you know? But I also live in Los Angeles and it’s summertime. And everyone here is getting older but you can’t really tell. And I didn’t used to get it but now I do. And by that I mean that last night I wore a bra as a shirt just to feel alive.