The Most Spectacular of Sunny Days
By Brittany Miles
1975
It arrived every year in July—followed me since I was eleven. Hush tones; adult whispers. My aunt said, “Depression.” Mama shook her head. Soft conversations. They stared when they thought I couldn’t see. Once I became an adult, I heard “Depression.” Same as that long ago. For me it was sadness.
The name doesn’t matter.
***
You could find me pulling a book from my reading pile and watching reruns of I Love Lucy on the black-and-white portable in the kitchen. Sometimes I’d watch it on the screen porch by turning it around. I was sitting outside like my aunt wanted—she disagreed.
I wasn’t a friendly kid—too shy, too prickly. Too much of everything. I preferred my days quiet and simple without contact. Laura Ingalls Wilder. Judy Blume. These were all the friends I needed. My aunt forced the neighbor kids on me. They didn’t like me. And I returned the favor.
Befriending them was the only way to make the arrangement work. For the both of us. Watching re-runs of 1960s TV shows ran its course. They were tired of endless hands of War. Sorry! bored them—they slammed the red pieces off the board. The siren call of summer lured my so-called friends outside (away from me). I relegated myself to the screen porch with my nest of books. Tears would come. Not loud, not soft. Burning, staining my cheeks. My chest heaved knowing I failed some invisible childhood test. I couldn’t make them want me. Wiping my face with my shirt left snot stains. Only Mama would care about that.
***
Mama told me after dinner that there was no room for the blues. The blues were songs only adults could sing. Kids didn’t know the melody. Mama stared out the window for hours at a time. Nothing filled her eyes. Sadness invaded her summer too. “We ain’t White,” Mama said with a nod. We couldn’t let things get us down. “Keep going,” Mama murmured while staring into the void.
I sat in Mama’s closet when the sadness got bad. It was my church, and I prayed at the altar of silk and Qiana blouses lightly scented by her perfume. I pushed aside her carefully placed shoes to make room for my narrow frame against the closet wall. I’d grasp as many blouses as I could, pressing my face into silk, breathing in the softness of her. The Mama I remembered. The one who rocked and sang to me on the worst days. Feeling particularly bold, I pulled a blouse around my shoulders. The warmth lulled me into a longed-for embrace. I had my cloak, my armor.
***
Shadows across the floor told me it was time. Back to the world. But not before I placed the sadness carefully in one of her neglected shoes. The next time, I’d have forgotten where I hid it. But it could always find me on the most spectacular of sunny days.
Bio: Brittany Miles writes fiction exploring the harm of generational silence within Black families. Her fiction has been shortlisted for The Letter Review Prize and is forthcoming in Raleigh Review and The Bookends Review in fall 2026 and early 2027. Her non-fiction essay “Feral” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Other work has appeared in Newsweek, Business Insider, and The Seattle Times.
Author’s Notes: The Most Spectacular of Sunny Days is based upon my own life. I was a shy, bookish kid who preferred quieter pursuits than the noise of summer. It would take years to learn what held me back—it was depression, an inherited condition which has followed me since. This story let me write about that lonely eleven-year-old girl and give her a way to survive the day instead of getting through it.
