He's not getting older, he's getting bitter...

Tomorrow is the first day of summer and my mind is wandering to memories long past.

Three boys riding identical red bikes with identical black helmets along the Musgrave Harbour highway towards a swimming hole. Goofing around, being young. A mishap and one takes a rough tumble. Shaken and shocked they all ride back to the summer home to lick their wounds. One physically the other two worried and guilty at far too young an age.

Lazy afternoons downtown. Bikes and boards. Always looking for just one more quarter at the arcade. Let's go roofin', one suggests. The others follow. Nothing better to do. Over this fence, up that ladder. Watch out for Security. C'mon b'y, sure it's only 10 feet or so. Run run run. Jump! Fly for a millisecond. Knees skinned. Adrenaline pumping. Right on.

A gravel pit with a bonfire has almost become a coming of age cliche around here. Almost. 16 and one half years. Too young to be here doing this, but there is no stopping him. Music blaring amped up by the generator. I think I'm really tripping, he says. The sky is moving. You are such a light weight, b'y. Those are the northern lights.

Years later. Darkness fell, hours before. Drugs forcing him awake. Hair flowing like a mane. Barefoot, running up and over parked cars. Urban primative isn't about piercings and tattoos. Climbing chain links, scrambling over concrete, around the back way. A note left on her window; the one that no one should be able to reach. Shirt torn, feet dark and dirty, but nerves firing, reminding him what it is to be truly alive.

The buddy system. Enacted to serve and protect. At the cabin, on a retreat. Rum and beer, beer and rum. Open fires and drunken lads. Let's go to the park. Everytime a car drives by the drunkest of the bunch dives into the gully. They aren't Nazis and you're no commando, b'y. Dashes off into the dark, no moon. The sound of heavy meat hitting gravel then someone spitting up pebbles. Where's his buddy?, one asks.

Summer is coming.