The air bites and stings. I wrap my face in my scarf and tuck my head down against the wind. But later, inside, the sun burns in through the windows like summer. And I’ve been wishing for summer lately, despite myself, despite my nature. I don’t remember the humidity, the sluggishness, the sweat, the irritation. Instead, I remember exploratory drives and shorelines and evening breezes and cold beer and dripping ice cream and stretching your bare legs out and green green grass. I want a kind of summer that doesn’t exist for me. I want summer like the 8mm home movies my Filipino relatives made in the ‘70s. Only the best parts. Flying kites. Riding horses. Barbecuing fish in the park. The sun’s bright and hot but it’s only a trick of the film, a filter someone forgot.