Epilogue
Every summer has a story.
People ask me sometimes,
“How did you make it out?”
And the truth? I don’t even know what ‘out’ means.
I didn’t end up with my name in no obituary, didn’t end up sprawled on the pavement.
But I don’t know if I ended up completely free either.
The block still breathes through me. The lessons, the scars, the hunger, they don’t wash off.
That heat never left me. The block still burns under my skin, in my memory, in the way I move.
It raised me, scarred me, loved me and lied to me all at once.
The hottest summer ever wasn’t just a season.
It was a warning. A crossroads. A fire I had to walk through.
And though I stepped back from the edge, the smoke still clings to me.
Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling it.
That burn. That heat. That pull. The block is a fever you never really shake. You just learn to live with it.
So yeah, I made it through the hottest summer ever. But the summer never ends. Not really. It stays inside me, a low whisper under every move I make.
Some people would say my story started the day I left for college.
Others would say it started the night Shay left.
But my story began long before any of that.
On a hot Philly summer day when Mama gave birth to a baby girl that she named Summer.
That same spark, the one they said I came into this world with, carried me all the way here.
Through everything. And now, standing in my dorm room, it was still there. Still burning.
Temple wasn’t the escape I thought it would be.
Don’t get me wrong, the campus was beautiful.
Tall trees lined the walkways, old stone buildings stood proud like history lived inside their walls, students walking around carrying books instead of burdens.
For the first few weeks, I felt like an imposter.
Like any minute someone would stop me and say, you don’t belong here.
Nobody did. And I learned how to move with them.
Marcus was always nearby. Early morning practices, late-night study sessions, dreams bigger than the city. We would sit on the dorm roof, looking out at the skyline, imagining lives that stretched further than the block ever allowed me to see.
Mama called every Sunday. She sounded strong again, like the old Denise, sharp-tongued and fearless.
Other times, I could hear the tiredness creeping back into her voice.
Like she was trying. For me. For the boys.
For herself. And that mattered. She always wanted me safe, but she couldn’t always save herself.
The twins grew fast that first year. Faster than I expected. Sinceer called me three times a week to talk about books he was reading. About things I barely understood but loved hearing him explain. Saiyd didn’t call much. When he did, the conversations was short.
“Basketball practice was good.”
“I beat dis dude one-on-one.”
“Coach say I got potential.”
He sounded older every time I heard his voice. Harder. The block had its hooks in him. I could feel it.
Mia became a rumor before she became a memory.
Last I heard, she moved down south with Darnell after things got too hot in Philly.
Federal indictments started circling his crew.
Some people said she got out before the fall.
Others said she went down with him. The block never tells the full truth.
Together we carved our names into that city.
And no matter what happens, I know she’ll always be the girl who saw me, really saw me, when the world wanted to swallow me whole. And for that, I will always love her.
Shay’s laughter still haunts me. Her perfume, her fire, her recklessness. She still drifted in and out. Sometimes she called late at night, voice soft and tired. Other times months passed without a word. Every time we spoke, she asked the same question,
“You still in school?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then silence. Like she needed to know at least one of us made it out.
Daddy? His story’s still unwritten. Sometimes he shows up in my dreams, holding my hand, calling me his princess. Other times I see him the way he really was, chasing shadows, choosing streets over us. Maybe one day he’ll walk back into my life. Maybe he never will.
The block itself never changed. When I came home for holidays, the same streetlight buzzed over the corner.
The same stoops held the same arguments.
The same cars rolled slow through the ‘hood like predators looking for fresh meat.
But the kids changed. They always did. The block never runs out of kids to raise.
I think about that day I left. That moment felt like the end of something. Now I know it was only the beginning. Every summer has a story. Mine started with heat and hope in a city that never sleeps. The question ain’t if I survived it. The question is: what’s next?