Summer was a diuretic. I stand on the naked lakebed and imagine water bubbling up around my soles, ankles, knees, neck: drowning me, or else bearing my weight to heights reached only by Christ and the saints that sought Him in coracles.
Am I the scarlet sumac, first out of the gate, blazing forth into new seasons? The crimson climber, loosely grasping earth as I burst toward the sun? Or am I the tired reeds, sounding summer’s death rattle even as I try to hold it within the dry brown bars of my prison? The dawn of new endings makes a phoenix of us all: goodbyehello, goodbyehello. Crown me with frost and I will evaporate into the sun, if that’s what it takes to fly.
I see September as the well-intentioned New Year’s resolutionist. “I’m going to shed all that extra weight,” he swears, and for a while, the humidity drops and the atmosphere lightens up, allowing you to breathe again. Friends and family are supportive of September: “We’ll pick your apples, September!” “We’ll drink your pumpkin spice latté!” “We’ll snuggle into scarves and sweaters!”
But time goes on. September grows lazy and forgetful. We do our best to support him, but on an eighty-degree day, I would rather spend my hours with my Apple computer than in an apple orchard, drinking an iced coffee instead of a hot and frothy latté, letting a fan cool the neck I covered yesterday with a scarf.
It’s the first day of fall. September, you fool, it’s time to start acting your age.