Thanks for coming, could you please leave now

It's the first day of summer, and Revere Beach is not packed with sun worshipers. The road way, however, is packed with drivers, wanting to see the water, yet unwilling to feel the breeze. They miss the smell of salt in the air, the strange surf and turf essence from Kelly's Roast Beef, or last summers sun tan oil.

Each car contains 4 to 6 youths, windows rolled up, radio screaming as the passengers watch the license plate of the car before, and the bemused faces in the car behind. My once quiet boulevard is packed, and could be mistaken for Storrow Drive prior to a Sox game. I wish I could impose myself on the riders in those gas guzzling behemoths, and ask why they are in swimsuits, if they have no intent to expose them selves to the sun's rays.

The sand has few sun worshipers, mostly children amazed at the sand. Running toward and then avoiding the water, playing tag with an opponent who knows not of their existence. It's still to cold to enter the water. I should warn them, by the time the water is warm enough to swim in, if ever, the summer will be almost over.

I am glad you love my home city, I am glad you eat at the restaurants we locals never do. But I really want to cross the street now, and drop this envelope in the mail box, so near, yet so far away.

So if it would not be too much of a problem. Could you all go home now?