The Summer When the Sun Never Left

By Peter Bowden

The sun never left. It rose one morning and stayed, hanging in the sky like a brass coin nailed to blue. Days passed, but there was no dusk, no relief. Clocks became liars. Shadows disappeared. The world baked under the weight of unblinking light. The heat had a weight to it, like an extra shirt you couldn’t take off. Even the breeze gave up by noon, curling into the shade with the dogs and the dust. Porch swings moved not from joy, but from the slow push of a foot too tired to try.

He watched the sky as if it might crack open and spill something cold. Ice, rain, mercy. But it only pulsed with that fierce, unwavering light—bright enough to wash history into silence. Grass turned to memory. Birds fell quiet. Children forgot what bedtime meant. Old men cursed softly on porches, their rocking chairs still. Air shimmered like a fever dream. People wore wide-brimmed hats and walked slower, as if motion itself might catch fire. 

Still, he sat. Cold tea in a glass. Hat pulled low. He’d tried to remember when time felt slower and sweat meant work. He remembered the night—not as something lost, but something sacred. The hush before sleep. The grace of stars. Now he lit candles in his darkened kitchen and pretended. Pretended the wax was moonlight. Pretended the silence outside was cool. He whispered goodnight to no one, and hoped the sun, at last, would grow tired too.

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