For some reason summer, more than any other season, is about moments. Memories and pictures and tales of adventures had and lost and found. I used to admire enviously the kids returning home with scars on their knees, wrists dangeling from the weight of ribbons and bracelets from a summer well lived.
I never could afford to go to any music festivals. Never dared to drag enough people along to brave the elements in a borrowed tent among the ruins of puberty and endless sunsets. This weekend though, I did the next best thing. I went to a carnival.
A friend of mine had texted me, whispering of an event taking place once every four years. A weekend of wonder and frivolity, filled with performances and food and more than a tiny bit of every day magic. I had invited her over for brunch in the morning and, draging a couple other people along, took the fast train to an all-day circus.
We arrived to a city flooded with both people and water. Rain was staining our shoulders as we got ribbons tied around our wrists and were let into fenced in markets with a tent for everything imaginable. The theme of the festival was the future and had been organized by 6000 volunteers and had hosted around 400.000 visitors during the entirety of the weekend.
We competed against each other in a race against time, were fake married to a bunch of strangers and spent thirty minute watching people dancing in the rain.
The day ended with us, starving and more than a little confused, finding ourselves listening to music so loud it made my ribcage rattle. I loved it. After stumbling around to the beat, laughing, we made our way to food and then back home again. We’d watched a parade of colorful festival cars drape themselves around the city and as we were leaving their music still echoed.
For the sunshine magic in heart and bone.