“August is ripening grain in the fields blowing hot and sunny, the scent of tree-ripened peaches, of hot buttered sweet corn on the cob. Vivid dahlias fling huge tousled blossoms through gardens and joe-pye-weed dusts the meadow purple.” – Jean Hersey
***
As the last days of August dwindle down, I can feel fall in the air.
We have not had our fill of corn on the cob or tomatoes, and I have yet to go for a swim.
This is the summer that will always be remembered as the one that just would not let us be . . .
Pacemakers, broken bones, and now a 14 day run-in with Covid for him, my test coming
back negative, day after day, while I sit in isolation.
Is it wrong to feel that summer still owes me?
I expect summer to follow through with her promise - until September 22.
Then and only then will I switch up the peaches for apples and pull out my hooded sweatshirt.
I promise to open my whole being to the glorious days of autumn. I promise to not complain about
the rain, or the darkness that falls over the mornings.
I will dig out the fall scented candles and peruse cookbooks for soup recipes.
If only summer might last a little bit longer.
***
“But when fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed.” – Stephen King