Somewhere between seven and sorrow, we moved to Big Bend—a sugar mill town where the air smelled like ash and summer fizzed like Coca Cola.

I must’ve been seven or eight. My parents had just divorced. My father worked at the Sugar Mill, and the village was filled with expats, heat, and a country club with tennis courts and a high school I was too young for.

What I remember most is this:
In June, they burned the sugar cane.
Black snow would rain from the sky.
Ash floating, weightless, like memory.

And I remember the shop. The shortcut through our neighbor’s garden. The heat so intense it made air-conditioning a necessity, not a luxury.

On the hottest days, we were given a few coins and sent to buy Coca Cola.
The sound of ice cubes clinking.
The fizz hitting your lip.
Running through sprinklers until we were drenched in joy.

That was summer.
Simple. Slow. Filled with tiny joys.

In the three years I’ve lived in Europe, this is the first summer I feel myself adapting to a new rhythm. Slowing down. Savoring. Noticing blue skies and whispery clouds, yellow and purple blooms, and the fullness of the season.

Everything feels alive.
Proof that grey days brighten.
That dark moods lift.
That seeds planted in winter eventually bloom.

Whether you're basking in long days of sunlight or curled up under winter skies, I’ve gathered three stories from The Open Draft that pair well with the season you're in.

These aren’t just essays—they’re tiny moments of recognition.
Of standing back up.
Of reimagining life in the messy middle.

Here are this month’s companion reads:

​A Father, a Book, and Everything We Didn’t Say​
A story about grief in quiet places—the kind that hides in unopened books, in long silences, in the things we never learned how to name.

→ Read it here​

​Reinvention, But Make It Humid and Slightly Unhinged​
A chaotic tale of starting over in a heatwave, dripping with doubt, desire, and the kind of clarity that only comes when everything else melts away.
→ Read it here​

​What We Keep and What Keeps Us​
An exploration of memory, meaning, and the quiet anchors that hold us together when life unravels.
→ Read it here​

Wherever this finds you—running through sprinklers or curled up with tea—I hope one of these stories meets you where you are.

I write every week over on The Open Draft, weaving together memory, healing, and quiet rebellion. It’s a space for those of us reimagining life in the messy middle.

Come join us.
→ Yes, I want more​

With softness and sunshine,
​Lisa Marie​
​Your blooming-late bestie

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Whenever you are ready, here's how I can help you:​​

1. Connect with me on Social Media: Let's be friends​
2. Join me on Substack ​👉 Here​​

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