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.
Sam walked past him, touched the yellowed paper. He tapped June 1st. Then July 4th. Then August 31st. when is summer months
Today, the shed door creaked open. Not Leo. A young man in a crisp uniform, duffel bag over his shoulder, a familiar gap-toothed smile. Sam. The old, dusty calendar hung on the nail
“Gramps,” Sam said, voice thick. “You asked when is summer months?” He tapped June 1st
Now, the calendar still showed July. Seven years ago’s July. Leo never turned the page after the news came.
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.”