There is a certain sound that belongs to summer. Not the sound of sprinklers ticking across a lawn, or the distant hum of an air conditioner fighting a losing battle against the heat. I mean the cicada—that high, electric song that seems to rise from every tree at once, filling the afternoon with a sound so constant you almost stop hearing it, until suddenly you do. Until you notice how it has become the soundtrack to everything.
I remember those summers. The kind that arrived with a heat that didn’t simply surround you, but settled onto you. Heavy. Wet. Relentless. The humidity clung to your skin. Your shirt stuck to your back. The air smelled of sun-baked earth, cut grass, and whatever was cooking somewhere nearby.
Even the evening seemed to sweat. And somehow, we loved it. Or maybe we didn’t love the heat at all. Maybe we just loved everything that came with it.
I remember my parents opening the windows and doors, throwing the house wide open as though daring the summer air to come inside. Curtains moved lazily with whatever little breeze wandered through. The house filled with the sounds of the neighborhood—the occasional car rolling past, a screen door slamming somewhere down the block, voices carrying through the warm evening air. Eventually, we’d all settle out in the backyard.
The grill would be going. Meat sizzling over hot coals, fat dripping onto the fire and sending little bursts of flame upward. Smoke curling through the air, carrying that unmistakable smell of charcoal and seared meat. The kind of smell that could make you hungry even if you’d just eaten. There were icy cold beers in my parents’ hands, bottles beaded with condensation, cold enough to make your fingers numb for a moment.
And somewhere in the background, coming from that tiny wall-mounted radio, there was Vicente Fernández. His voice spilling into the backyard, competing with the cicadas and the occasional crackle of the grill. That little radio wasn’t much to look at, but it had a way of making the whole backyard feel bigger. Music drifting over the fence. Music floating down the block. Music becoming part of the evening.
And while the adults sat around talking, laughing, eating, and drinking, we were somewhere in the middle of everything. Running. Playing catch. Throwing a ball that inevitably went too far. Chasing one another across the yard. Coming home sweaty and dirty and not particularly interested in either of those things.
The neighborhood kids would appear on their bikes, tires humming against the pavement, handlebars wobbling as they came tearing down the street. Someone would yell your name from half a block away. Someone else would ask if you wanted to play. Of course you did. There was always time.
That is one of the things I remember most. There was always time. No one seemed to be in a hurry to get anywhere. The afternoon could stretch on for what felt like forever, and the evening seemed to have no real ending. We lived by the light. As long as there was enough of it, we stayed outside.
And then, slowly, the sun would begin its descent. The harsh brightness of the afternoon softened into gold. Shadows stretched longer across the yard. The sky would begin changing above the rooftops—yellow melting into orange, orange deepening into red, and red eventually giving way to purple and blue. The heat remained, radiating from the pavement and the walls, but the worst of the day’s furnace was finally beginning to loosen its grip.
The cicadas kept singing. The grill kept smoking. Vicente kept singing from that little radio. And somewhere between one throw of the ball and the next, we’d look up and realize the sun was almost gone.
The horizon would swallow the last sliver of light.
That was our signal. Not a text message. Not an alarm. Not somebody checking a watch. Just darkness coming.
And eventually, reluctantly, we’d head inside.
Looking back, I realize how ordinary those evenings were. There were no vacations involved. No expensive restaurants. No elaborate plans. No one was trying to create a memory.
We were simply living one.
That’s the strange thing about nostalgia. You don’t recognize the good days while you’re standing in them. You think you’re just sitting in the backyard. Just eating dinner. Just listening to music. Just sweating through another summer evening. Just playing catch until someone tells you it’s getting late.
You don’t know that years later, a certain song will come through a speaker and suddenly you’ll smell charcoal again. You’ll hear the hiss of meat hitting the grill. You’ll feel the damp heat against your skin. You’ll hear bicycles rolling down the street. You’ll hear your parents laughing somewhere behind you.
And beneath it all—that unmistakable song of the cicada.
For a moment, you’re there again.
The windows are open. The backyard is alive. The sky is burning at the edges. The radio is playing. The people you love are close. And the night hasn’t arrived yet.
Maybe that’s what I miss most. Not the summer itself. Not even the heat. I miss the feeling that those evenings would last forever. That there would always be another tomorrow. Another sunset. Another backyard. Another song on the radio. Another summer.
We didn’t know how fleeting it all was. We didn’t know that one day we’d give almost anything to step back into an ordinary evening and stand there for just a few more minutes. To feel the humidity. To smell the smoke. To hear the laughter. To hear Vicente singing from that little radio. To watch the kids race their bikes home as the last light disappeared. To hear the cicadas singing into the darkness.
We thought it was just another summer evening.
But it wasn’t.
It was life.
And looking back now, I think… that was living.
Now, as I sit here, all grown up (mostly), I step outside and hear the cicadas. And just like that, I remember.
I remember us running around the neighborhood, disappearing for what seemed like hours, only to come tearing back into the yard when the smell from the grill became too much to resist. We’d sneak over and pilfer a piece of meat when my parents weren’t looking—or at least when we thought they weren’t looking. And when their attention wandered, we’d steal a sip from their beer, making a face at the bitterness before wiping our mouths and pretending nothing had happened.
I remember my brother and me tossing a football back and forth, playing catch until our arms were tired. I remember playing banana ball, making up the rules as we went along and arguing about them when someone didn’t like the outcome. I remember scraped knees, dirty feet, sweat-soaked shirts, and the complete absence of concern about any of it.
I remember how quiet each evening somehow felt, despite the noise of the neighborhood. There were cars passing, kids shouting, bicycles rattling down the street, screen doors opening and closing, music spilling from houses, and the endless chorus of cicadas rising from the trees. It should have been noisy.
But it wasn’t. Not to me.
There was a stillness in those evenings that I didn’t understand then. Maybe it was the absence of everything that now fills our lives. No constant notifications. No screens demanding our attention. No schedules packed from morning until night. Just the fading light, the people around us, and the simple rhythm of an evening unfolding exactly as it was supposed to.
And I remember my mother.
I remember her singing along to that rickety little radio, her voice blending with Vicente Fernández as she moved around the backyard. I remember the way she would whistle while she managed the grill, checking the meat, turning this and moving that, somehow keeping track of everything without ever seeming rushed.
I remember the little things.
How she’d lean over and give my dad a kiss every now and then, almost absentmindedly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was.
I remember my father’s laughter. I remember the glow of the grill against the deepening evening. I remember the smell of smoke hanging in the warm air. I remember the cold bottle in my hand, even though I was never supposed to have it. I remember the sound of bicycles disappearing down the street as the last light slipped away.
I remember the sky.
I remember the heat.
I remember the music.
I remember the laughter.
I remember the people.
And now, standing here all these years later, with the evening settling around me and the cicadas singing from somewhere beyond the yard, I realize that they never really left.
Not completely.
They’ve been there all along, tucked away somewhere beneath the years, waiting for the right sound, the right song, the right smell of summer to bring them rushing back.
A cicada sings.
And suddenly I’m a kid again.
The windows are open.
The grill is smoking.
My mother is singing.
My father is laughing.
My brother is tossing me the ball.
The neighborhood is alive.
The sun is slipping toward the horizon.
And for just a moment, nothing has changed.
I remember.
I remember.
I remember.
And standing here now, I finally understand what I couldn’t possibly have understood then: I wasn’t just living through summer. I was living through some of the best days of my life.
And I didn’t even know it.
There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com.
Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing—one post at a time.
Stories have always traveled best by word of mouth. If one of these finds a place in your heart, I’d be honored if you’d drop a like or share it with someone else.
© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
Leave a Reply