I think that sunlight on trees is my favorite color. It’s that yellowish-green translucent color that comes out, especially on sunny afternoons. Sunlight on leaves always reminds me of summer, and even though summer now fades, making room for fall, I still cling to its translucent, yellow-green warmth. So maybe this is my love letter to summer. Maybe this is my way of saying goodbye — and not just to the sunlight on trees or the lovely 80-degree weather, though I will certainly miss them both.
This summer was different from most of my other summers. It was my first time going home after a whole year of college. Adjusting was not easy. I was immersed in a world of flexible dinner times and late night studying, of classes and too much coffee, only to jump to one with parents, no classes and no obligations. I was left alone with myself and a lingering uncertainty about my future.
This could be a confessional, but I’ll stop myself a little short here. I don’t have to write about the uncertainty of my future. I doubt anyone would like to read that. I doubt very much I would like to write that. And if summer were all about doubts, I would not miss it, not even my 80-degree weather or the prettiest translucent yellow-green of sunlight on trees.
I do not know if there will be cohesion to this article, but then again I do not know if there was cohesion to my summer. But there was certainly more to my summer than just worries, like finding my way of overcoming or maybe just growing comfortable with all those doubts and uncertainties. There were constants, for sure. Finally watching the masterpiece that is Peaky Blinders. Learning to drive after two semesters of panicking that if I ever started driving, I’d crash the car by pressing the gas pedal instead of the brake. Even little things, like watching Stray Kids videos at my friend’s house. Reading new books at Small World Coffee and writing articles at the Barnes & Noble café.
There were firsts, too. First concert (it better not be my last). First time visiting my sister at her summer dorm in D.C. First time actively looking at the The New York Times website to stay updated on current events (I write for news — my lack of attention to the world around me is shameful). First time attending trivia night and cheering with random Princetonians about a baseball game I know nothing about. First time watching Twisters and realizing I might be a little bit in love with Glen Powell.
This summer was also the first time I realized that sunlight on trees is my favorite color. This one happened more gradually, so I don’t remember the actual moment I came to this realization. It should not be revolutionary. It is a color. It is leaves. And still, it means more than it reasonably should.
I am often reminded, in my various literature classes, of the importance of nature. Its power, its indifference. The fact that we — that is, me, the girl who spends most of her time indoors, and all my kindred spirits — depend so heavily on nature and are still sometimes so oblivious to it. This is perhaps directly calling me out. I’ll walk around the perfectly manicured quads with their trees and leaves and flowers, and all I will see are the people, or sometimes nothing at all.
But this summer, in proper accordance with all my other firsts, I saw those trees. During my walks to Small World or my friend’s place on streets so familiar I had only two choices — to look inwards or to see them, properly — I actually chose the latter. So it must have been then, on some aimless, long-forgotten walk to some staple destination of mine, that I realized my favorite color must be translucent yellow-green — and not just any translucent yellow-green, but the kind that glows when sunlight hits the trees.
Lana Swindle is a sophomore from Princeton, N.J. majoring in Writing Seminars. She’s a News and Features Editor for The News-Letter. Her column views her everyday experiences from a different perspective.
