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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In the summer we left. We went to the island we came from. Though we barely spoke the language we felt strangely at home. The island we came from, with its postcard-perfect ocean and movie-perfect people. The island we came from, with its stories flowing just as smoothly as the ambrosial honey that we helped to harvest, was a sacred place. In the summer we left for the island we came from. We went back. We learned about the world we left, the traditions and the manner in which our ancestors, its inhabitants, lived their lives. In the summer on the island we came from it was hot. It was a burning and unfathomable and unbearable heat. The first time we went back we were not prepared for it. We would sit on our open bed, just a mattress, no sheets. We would be wearing the very minimum, our bare backs facing up as we gazed into the vast darkness that was the cold of the overturned pillow. We lay still, trying to ignore the copious amounts of sweat rolling down our backs. The succeeding trips we were not so unprepared. We knew the heat, the stories, the people, the language. We knew its secrets and peculiar quirks, like the donkeys that ran like taxis up and down the dirt roads. We knew their names. We spoke with ease, making our own stories and traditions, helping to harvest the honey and walk the donkeys on their way. We gave advice to the tourists about the heat and the ocean and the people. In the summer we left. We went to where we came from. Back to the bustling roads and never-ending days. Back to the sounds and sights and cluttered way we lived before. We had forgotten the language and loathed the postcard-perfect skylines and movie stars. We longed to see the real stars again. The summer. It was always summer, it seemed. We always left in the summer and we always craved to go back from whence we came. It was always the summer. The summer when we left.
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