Summer’s slow fade has begun.
I can hear it in the mornings, when I sit quiet with my coffee. The cricket’s song still thrums outside my window, but it is muted now. The percussion section is gone, or maybe it’s the bass.
The last firefly has flickered out. The pool is shuttered. Our late evening walks to the park have been replaced by the routines of school: homework, piano practice, showers … and nagging. So much nagging.
What will I remember about this disappearing season?
It was my summer of freedom — when my daughter left home for weeks on end, and I could lounge quietly with a book, or go to the movies on a weeknight, or wonder what it is that people do when they are responsible only for themselves.
It was my summer of not writing — of thinking about writing and feeling that I should be writing, of telling myself that I may not have a child-free stretch like this ever again (or at least until next summer), and still not writing.
It was my summer of worry — of watching our carefully made plans evaporate, of not knowing how it will all turn out, of trying to find ease inside the not-knowing.
It was my summer of waking up — to my privilege, to the depth and breadth of racism, to the ways in which I have benefited from it. My summer of outrage.
I try so hard to make sense of this life, this world. But as I sit here on my couch with the slanting light of early fall outside the window, I don’t know what it all means, the passage of days and the changing of seasons.
So I sit still, sipping my coffee, feeling both the loss and the new beginning of fall’s arrival.