I’ve been studying the whole marketing thing. I’ve been brushing up on my writing skills. I’ve been reading up on how to create engaging online content. Because who these days writes just for the sake of writing, right? We all post and share and wait for the ‘likes’. And if and when we get them, it makes us feel so good. And that’s an entirely different subject, worth reading upon.

But you know what – I simply enjoy writing. The titles of my posts may not be exciting, my keywords and links may not generate traffic (bear with me – there’s the whole science behind it, it takes time just to learn the slang), but the black letters, appearing on the white page, give me simple and pure satisfaction.

Let’s leave it at that for now.

I vented to my sister the other day: why our summers have so few weekends?

I asked my friend not long after: how come we can count the weekends of the summer on our fingers?

Out of the whole year, I truly enjoy only the summer. Other seasons may be nice, but to me, the blue sky and the hot sun, the warm breeze and the sea (lake and river) mean the ultimate happiness.

Alas, this summer was even shorter than usual. My weekends to enjoy got reduced in half as I sprained my ankle and had to stay indoors for a few weeks, slowly getting to the usual pace of life for the few following weeks. They got reduced even further as my daughter had a fever, or a sore throat, or both, and the strict doctor’s orders followed: no swimming or eating ice cream.

‘I’d let her swim and eat ice cream’, – my sister announced.

Well, I didn’t, hoping to get back on our feet (literally) sooner.

Until, that is, I got more strict orders, from my doctor this time: don’t get too hot.

With 27°C outside, it basically translated into staying in.

So as I sat on a beautiful day and looked through my window at a perfectly blue sky without any clouds, I felt cheated.

However, this summer has taught me things.

As I rode the bus to work numerous times, not being able to walk for a few weeks, I starting noticing the same faces, as you do, catching the same bus at the same hour. The suits, the dresses, the laptop bags and the scooters. All on the way to start their day somewhere.

And every time I was on that bus, I saw a mother with her daughter, around my daughter’s age. The mother was oblivious to me watching, as she sat turned away from her daughter, eyes on the phone in her hand. The daughter was chatting to herself and singing, but also oblivious to me watching, as she had her own phone in her tiny hand.

Every time I looked at them, I felt a pang of sadness. And I instantly missed my own daughter’s little hand in mine. When we ride a bus, we always sit as close as possible. We always hold hands. We always talk about what we see. We both cover our noses if the smell is not right and we both laugh at something funny we notice. We ride together.

Of course, I don’t know anything about the other mother, I don’t know her story. I’m just happy the way I do things with my daughter, even if sometimes it’s a harder way to do them.

This summer has showed me things.

Sometimes, as I wake up in the morning, the dream is vivid in my mind. I can recall it with the tiniest of details. I can feel what I felt while I was dreaming. It’s like a picture, that has the brightest of colors that don’t fade.

And just like that, a few weeks ago, I had a dream about Beno. No no, not any ordinary dream. Although no dream about him is ordinary, as they are rare and few.

It was a dream about him coming back. Just like that – coming back from being gone. The emotion that I felt is too overwhelming to describe – I can still feel it. You can’t imagine it, as it’s not possible. But it was all consuming, Beno being alive. With a suitcase in his hand. Looking as young and handsome as he always did.

I held back at first. I couldn’t believe it. But he was not going anywhere. For him it was not a big deal (like nothing really was when he was alive) – like he just returned from a trip.

As he stayed, I finally made my way to him and embraced him with all my essence. It was a beautiful dream.

My daughter was not too happy when I shared it with her: ‘Why don’t I ever dream of daddy?’ And like any question, related to Beno being gone, it’s not easy to answer.

The summer has been short, but it’s been precious.

The next one is 9 months away.