Sometimes the middle of winter can seem more like summer than the summer ever did. In a moment or fragment of a moment when a smell or a sound or when the certain way that light is falling releases a disconnected memory which floats to the surface like a bubble, and then it would feel like the summer.
And you pause a while, caught wondering, but the memory isn’t even a memory but only the sense that there was a memory, and that you have known this once before. And by the time you’re realising or rememering this, the moment has already departed, and it no long feels like the summer, and the sun is setting.
But the moment seemed realer and bigger than all the summers passed, and you’d remember it, and you’d spend your life trying to remember it again.