It wasn’t that Leo had forgotten. It was that his grandson, Sam, had asked him the question seven years ago, on the day before he left for deployment. Sam had been six, holding a melted popsicle, staring at the same calendar.
Leo nodded, tears spilling down the furrows of his cheeks.
“Gramps, when is summer months?” Sam had lisped. when is summer months
The old, dusty calendar hung on the nail in the shed, its edges curled from humidity and neglect. Every day, Leo would shuffle out here, run a finger over the dates, and ask the same question.
Leo blinked, mouth opening and closing. “The calendar… I was just…” It wasn’t that Leo had forgotten
Leo had scooped him up, pointed to June, July, and August—the three fat blocks of red letters. “These three, buddy. Summer lives right here.”
“When is summer months?”
Sam turned and wrapped his arms around the old man. “Right now, Gramps. Summer is right now.”