Schultz Party of Four

A Letter from Cubeville, as summer approaches.
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To Whom it may Concern (and might I just add it concerns me greatly):
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There is no summer in Cubeville. The fluorescent lighting does not get sunnier as June draws near, no need for additional applications of sunscreen. The days don't get longer, they were already long. I might pretend my rolly-office chair is a lawn chair and I am sunning on the beach somewhere, but that always gets awkward when someone startles me unexpectedly.
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For Cubeville fun we stand at the only windows worth note and watch storms approach from the west. If someone needs to make a copy we have to move, the window isn't big enough for storm watching and copy making. If the storm looks serious enough the men close to retirement age call their wives, the men with high school boys call the coach to see if practice is canceled, and the mom of littles (that was a singular 'mom' if you didn't catch that) texts her husband to keep the girls from being too scared during the lightning.
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Sometimes people bring in donuts. Those are good days in Cubeville.
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Eventually we all end up back in our cubes. I listen to podcasts and stare at spreadsheets. When the phone rings I silently huff to myself because Erwin McManus or Rob Bell was probably in the middle of something really profound and I don't want to disembark from my isolation, but then I think it might be my boss or someone more important than me (read: pretty much anyone else in Cubeville) so I answer promptly and with a smile (possibly crooked).
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Someday I will miss my cube. Maybe I'll be in an office, or at home because the lottery ticket I never buy happened to be a winner. Someday I will watch a storm approach from the west and it won't be from the fifth floor of an office complex and a little part of me will feel empty inside. So I'll buy myself a donut and that little empty part will be adequately full again.
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With love,
K