Andy is out running his evening errands. The night fell faster than expected, as it is wont to do at this time of the year. I turn on the lamps in the living room. It feels cozier that way. Less lonely. In the air, Shirley Horn sings a sweet lament in this gorgeous song. Maybe September… because it’s such a volatile time of the year. The days can be sweet or salty, depending on the sun, on the wind, on the rain… and the nights are even less predictable. On this one, I listen to the dearly departed Ms. Horn and pour myself an unexpectedly-short glass of whiskey, mostly because I’m not a whiskey guy, and a little of that will go a long way with me at this point. There’s nothing good or noble about holding my liquor anymore. But on this weekend night, it will warm the stomach and tease the soul. And maybe this is what gentlemen do.
MAYBE SEPTEMBER I WILL LOVE AGAIN
MAYBE A RAINBOW WILL CATCH ME THEN
THIS LITTLE GIRL’S EYES WILL FIND HER WAY ONCE MORE
JUST LIKE BEFORE, WHEN LOVE WAS TENDER…
Yes, September, you are a tricky sort. So willow-like. So mercurial. So slippery, seductive and silly. So perfect for the sounds of Shirley Horn. Accompanied by a glass of whiskey, and punctuated in the past with a clove cigarette, you are a spicy slice of life. I’ll raise a glass to that: here’s to life. The world seems to want more in September. I mean that in many ways. Love can come easy and hard when summer slips away. Easy to fall. Hard to pick yourself back up.
THE SWAY OF A WILLOW WHEN LOVE WAS BORN
A FACE ON THE PILLOW WHEN EARLY MORN’
I STILL SEE THAT GOLDEN WORLD IN ALL ITS SPLENDOR
MAYBE SEPTEMBER
LOVE WILL COME AGAIN…
Once upon a time…
No, that’s quite wrong…
Because it can never be just once. At least, it wasn’t for me.
I would fall repeatedly, over and over, and every September I would do it again. Failed fall romances were my unhappy history. I’d try for spring, and finally find some happiness in summer, but fall was always misery. And mystery. And it wasn’t all bad.
There is still some sun to be had, even at the end of September. There is still some warmth and heat, when the earth soaks in the sunlight and holds onto it with terrible tenacity, when it might be better to just let it go. I love such struggle. I love people more when they try. When faced with the inevitable, which would you do? Fight against it or give in? I’ve always given in. Most of my friends – at least the ones I value most – would fight. That’s why they’re my friends. I’m not that strong.
Yet I have a fondness for September. After all these years, when September stopped stinging so much, when it stopped hurting, I find a sense of solace and resignation in this moody month. We put the gardens to sleep. We put our shorts away. We store the pool towels in the attic and hope to remember where they are in the spring.
Tonight, I step outside. Warmed by the whiskey, I find the coolness of the evening soothing. September and I make our peace. A cricket chirps in the darkness. The moon glows vaguely in the clouds. Andy will be home soon. I step inside.
A TALLER TREE, A SWEETER LOG
A BLUER MORNING SKY ABOVE
AND MAYBE COME SEPTEMBER
I WILL SHARE THESE WONDERS
WITH MY LOVE.
