A Summer Song in January

It was one of those days that didn’t quite know what it wanted. The sun shone brightly enough to dazzle the surface of the water, but the wind still carried an echo of winter. Still, there was something light in the air. Maybe it was the sound of children playing somewhere in the distance, or the smell of coffee from the cart near the park entrance. Or maybe it was just because it was Thursday, and Thursdays have a kind of indecisiveness about them—like the weekend is already tempting, but not quite within reach.

He wore his blue jacket, the one with pockets always full of things he thought he might need: a folded shopping list, a small flashlight, a used paper napkin, and the same coins that had jingled there since last year. Rosa often laughed at it, and he let her. It reminded him of how, as a young man, he used to walk around with a pocketknife and a hot dog bun in his inner pocket. Just in case. You never knew when you’d get hungry or need to cut some rope.

As he rounded the bend toward the bench, she was already there—sitting slightly reclined, legs crossed, with a book in pastel colors resting in her lap. She was so absorbed that he almost didn’t want to disturb her. The colorful scarf tied around her hair danced lightly in the breeze, and he noticed how she slowly ran her thumb across the pages, as if she was feeling the words with her fingertips.

Only when he got close did she look up—and smile.

“You’re late,” she said, slipping the bookmark into the book with a movement that was as much habit as it was an invitation to talk.

“I went to buy apples. And then I got caught in a conversation with the guy at the checkout who thinks January should be banned. I stood there agreeing with him, naturally.”

“January maybe shouldn’t be banned,” Rosa said, “but it could at least have a pause button. Or just be a bit shorter.” She moved her bag aside so he could sit. “Especially mid-January. It’s like an endless Tuesday.”

“I’ve heard someone has a birthday in mid-January,” he said, tilting his head. “And that it rained that day.”

“It did. And the year after. I think it’s rained on every birthday I’ve ever had. But a few years ago, I decided it should be summer anyway. In my heart, at least.”

It was just such a day she had imagined as a child—wind in her hair and the sound of the world moving around her. She used to love sitting on the veranda at home, listening to the street. A stroller passing. A bike turning too sharply. A radio playing Halvdan Sivertsen’s “Butterfly in Winterland.” Her mother’s voice behind her: “Don’t sit like that, Rosa, you’ll catch a cold.”

“You celebrate with strawberries and beer in the sun?”

“Strawberries, yes. And a summer song.”

“A summer song?”

“Yes. It started as a joke. I told my son he had to sing me a summer song so I could pretend it was July. Now he does it every year. Even over Zoom during the pandemic. One time he sat in shorts and sunglasses indoors, in the middle of a snowstorm.”

She laughed, and he laughed with her. It was the kind of laughter that needed no explanation.

“Do you have a favorite song?” he asked.

“Not really. It’s more about the mood. Something light. Something that reminds me life isn’t just rain and bills. Something that says: ‘You’re still here.’”

He nodded. He felt it hit home. That feeling—he had searched for it himself many times. A confirmation that he was still here. That he still had a place.

“You know,” he said, “I heard a song the other day with a line I liked. It went something like: Let me be the person I’m meant to be.”

“That’s a good line.”

“Yeah. And I thought, maybe that’s what we’re doing here. Trying to figure out who we’re supposed to be, now that we’ve become… well, this version of ourselves.”

She turned to him, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand.

“Who do you think you’re meant to be?”

“Someone who’s no longer waiting for memories. Someone who doesn’t walk in circles hoping someone will come tell him who to be. Someone moving forward—even if it’s slowly.”

“That sounds like a good beginning.”

“And you?”

“I think I’m meant to be someone who finally lets go of all the versions she thought she had to be. Daughter, wife, organized and efficient. Maybe it’s time to be… well, just me. A little messy, fond of marzipan, and fond of people.”

“I like you just like that,” he said. And it was true.

They sat in silence for a while. A dog barked in the distance. A couple walked by, hand in hand. He noticed that it hurt a little less to see it now. It used to sting, remind him of what he had lost. Now it was more like a soft draft from a time that had been his—but no longer demanded space.

A child on a scooter zoomed past, followed by a mother calling a name they didn’t quite catch. It made them smile—they remembered that time too, when you always carried something on your shoulders: a child, a bag, responsibilities. Now they mostly carried memories, and thankfully—some of them were light.

“I don’t need a savior,” Rosa said suddenly. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

“That almost sounds like a song lyric.”

“Maybe it is.”

He took her hand—not to hold it, just to feel her skin against his. It was warm, thin, alive.

“We don’t use our time like we did last year,” she said.

“No. Now we know how valuable it is.”

“And how little it takes for a day to feel… right.”

He smiled and looked up at the clouds now drifting away, letting the sun hit his face. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his thoughts float.

He thought of summer. Not necessarily the real one, with heat and ice cream. But the inner summer. The one that could appear in the middle of January when someone sat beside you and saw you for who you really were. The one that didn’t require drama but lived in small things—a shared laugh, a knowing glance, a song you didn’t know you needed to hear.

“You know,” he said, “I think I’d like to celebrate my birthday with a summer song too.”

“When is your birthday?”

“July, actually.”

“Typical.”

“But maybe that’s exactly why I never learned to long for the sun. It was always there. It’s only now I understand what it means to long. And what it means to create your own sun, when the sky is grey.”

“You’re getting wise.”

“Or just older.”

They both laughed. The light laughter was like birdsong—sudden and carefree. Not because everything was easy, but because they had learned it didn’t need to be.

“You,” said Rosa, standing up. “Today I want waffles and coffee from the kiosk. Are you coming?”

“Am I coming? I’m the one who always has waffle money in his pocket, remember?”

She laughed and leaned toward him as they began to walk.

“I know. That’s why I still leave the light on.”

“And I knock,” he said.

The sun hung low now, but not threatening. It was just there. A reminder. That summer exists. Sometimes in July. Sometimes in the heart. And sometimes, in the middle of January, on a bench in the park—with someone who knows how it feels to carry something, but also how it feels to lay it down.

They had just rounded the bend when Rosa turned and smiled.

“You know, I’ve eaten waffles in both France and Belgium.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Both countries claim to have invented them. The Belgians talk about their thick, square ones, and the French refer to the 1100s and batter with wine and honey and floral water. But you know what?”

“What?”

“The Norwegian ones are best.”

He laughed.

“Is that patriotism or taste buds talking?”

“The taste buds, absolutely. There’s something about the thin, heart-shaped, warm waffle. Maybe it’s the smell that hits you first. Or the crispy edges when it’s freshly made. Maybe it’s the memory of childhood, or of Grandma standing at the iron with a ribbon in her hair and an apron on. But it’s something.”

He nodded.

“I read once that the word ‘waffle’ comes from the Low German wafel, meaning wax cake. Because the pattern looks like the honeycomb made by bees.”

“Exactly! And you know what? In medieval France, waffles were sold outside churches, especially during holidays. It got so popular people started fighting over the best spots, and then King Charles IX had to pass a law. A waffle law!”

“A waffle law?”

“Yes! It required at least four meters between waffle sellers. Imagine that. When something’s so good it needs royal regulation—you know it’s serious.”

They laughed again, and he felt that warm sense of connection rise under his coat. Some people don’t just bring memories—they make them.

“You know,” he said, “I think we should celebrate this January day with the best waffle in the whole park.”

“And coffee. In paper cups.”

“Of course. It’s Thursday luxury.”

They walked on, a little slower now, as if they had all the time in the world. And maybe they did. Time enough for a summer song, a laugh, and a waffle that tasted just like the best kind of memories.