The windows were down and my hair was flying. I had punched some buttons on the car radio and found the jazz station, which was playing a blues tune. The Beach Boys would have been better, but blues worked too.

This wasn’t just any drive; it was heading home from the pool, the quintessential summer excursion. Swim suit cool on the skin, air blowing through the car, wet towels on the back seat. The sun so warm on my bare left arm that I slathered it with sunscreen as I sat at a light.

What is it about driving home after the pool that seems the very soul of summer? Is it the weariness in the muscles? The trace of chlorine on the skin? Or is it knowing that you’ve imbibed the season in all its glory?