Tag Archive

Hello. It is evening, dark already by 8:00. School started today, the official end of summer as we know it.

Fall is by far my favorite season.

I was browsing through pieces from the past, and came upon this one, from last year. I remember the day, and it was indeed glorious. It makes me anticipate all the more the season we approach in September…

_____________
In some unknown corner along rows of apartment buildings, I found the banks of the Charles River, coated in sunlight, dappled by the shadows of trees blowing in the wind. It was no longer the soft breeze of summer, but a crisper wind of cinnamon and crimson, of school days and football games, of sweaters and hot, milky coffee. Canoes lay overturned throughout the woody marshes, like the toys of distracted children. It was there that I sat, watching the walkers and wanderers, I myself meditating on the wonder of autumn and that symbolic repetition of the seasons. Now we were in the time of year when things begin to fade and die, and for years I had always rejoiced in that. Something in the leaves, the smell of it, the busy, musty beauty of it, always seduced my senses like nothing else, like a fire, like hands beneath my sweater, touching my skin and making me shiver, both from the cold and from the excitement of feeling bare skin so deliberately against mine. Summer revealed too much; spring was too new. But the maturity of fall, covered, but gloriously so, always felt right to me.

So I felt a sense, too, of remembering and renewal before winter’s cold settled in. As the trees turned to red and gold, I threw bread into the river—not a tradition I grew up with, but one that friends share. It seems to fit so well. There I thought about the last year’s amazing changes, the regrets and hardships that gave me so much wonder and mystery. It is from there that I look for new beginnings.
_____________
Song of the day: “Sand River,” Beth Gibbons with Rustin Man

It’s the end of July. Hard to believe. I slept very little last night, thinking, and took a drive this afternoon so I could try not to. A tree on the north side of town had given in to the tinges of red and yellow, and the air had that feeling of letting go.

Right now, at 8:30, it is already dark. I hear my kids upstairs, reluctant to go to bed, but soon, they’ll give in to sleep, as well. It is still warm outside. The sun blazed through the day, leaving bronzed, happy campers for me. The air conditioning is still running a little. But summer is getting tired.

Crow’s feet and laugh lines mark my face, remembering joy, remembering more sweet than the joy itself, I do believe. It is bittersweet, thinking of spring’s promise, dreams, wonders. I love this, love this time when summer is quiet. The fireworks have dwindled, the swimsuits faded, the glories exhausted. It is time for August.

When I was younger, I used to swim laps. I still like to. I rode my bike every night to the pool, an hour before it closed at 8:00. In early summer, I always hit all sorts of younger kids dodging through the lap lane. By August, they were mostly gone. The pool was mostly empty, in fact, save another addicted swimmer or two and a lifeguard. Back and forth, I used to swim that hour before they blew the whistle. Back and forth, I hit the rhythm that took me to another world. Back and forth, summer slipped by. The whistle blew, and I used to pull off my goggles to see the orange sun low in the west. I got on my bike and rode the same streets home, through the football field parking lot, to the street that jogged before Chestnut, to Selma, then Florence, Edgar Road and up the hill to home. It was almost dark by then, and I used to have ice cream sometimes, read, write, dream. Nothing could bother me there, in the water-induced peace I had found, looking out the window at the stars, listening to the radio, and figuring out who I might become someday.

Tomorrow is August, the beginning of the end of summer. The best time. The time we remember our real lives, left hanging through the never-ending days of June and July. We remember, but we do not retrieve those lives completely… not quite yet. Farmers markets. The people we love. Practices, but no games yet. Coming home. Plans for the future, but the date book is hardly filled. Another dive off the deck, more cherished because it is nearly the last.

Tomorrow is August. Savor it.

—————-
Now playing: Bebel Gilberto - August Day Song
via FoxyTunes