Summer’s final full month enters to scattered applause. In this weirdly wild year, we look warily at what may be on the horizon, and hope for the best, or at least something simply not diabolical. A world on edge continues on edge, but the summer lends it a different shimmer.
The month of my birth has always been a happy one, but tinged with a bit of ambivalence. The first flush of June is the space of celebration and the glorious return of summer. The heat and light-filled month of July signifies vacations and a sense of never-ending sunny days. August is different.
It starts wth days like high summer – not much different from the July that came just yesterday. About halfway through the month, though, something changes. A coolness seeps into the nights. The gardens, having gone non-stop with all this warm sunny weather, take the moment to take a breath, the ferns starting their shriveling and browning that constant water will only slow, never reverse. You can’t go back when it comes to summer, only forward.
There is still more sun yet to come, still more heat to annoy and bear. Most of September is summer too, and this year we need to make the most of it. I’m slowing the days in the only way I know – marking and making a moment at least once a day, even if they’re not to be remembered. The act is enough, the ritual is its own comfort.
August, welcome.
