I’m having a hard time letting go of summer this year. Usually by early September, I’m anticipating fall. I’m looking forward to the change in seasons, the coming rain, the holidays. But this year, it seems like summer’s ending too soon. I think part of that is because I missed some of my August rituals. We humans seem to need that sort of marker to process the passage of time.
With the exception of the past two sultry days, the mornings have been cooler lately, the warmth of the afternoon lingering for only a few brief hours. The darkness is coming too early, catching me by surprise and making me feel sleepy when it’s only eight o’clock. I’m just not ready to let go of the warmth and sunlight quite yet. I’m not ready for this change.
I took a walk last night in the it’s-still-80-degrees-at-10 o’clock darkness. I wanted to feel the balmy air on my bare legs and arms, experience those odd areas of warmth that hover along certain spots in the road. I had to hear the crickets singing their summer serenade and a train wailing in the distance. I didn’t want to go inside because I knew a few short weeks from now, days like this would be lost to us forever, or at least until next July. I needed to soak up every whisper of the season, revel in each nuance—etch it indelibly into my memory, so I could pull it out in January and relive it all over again. I wanted to lay down on the still-warm concrete of my driveway and look up at the stars. Because they’ll soon be cloaked in clouds, and the night will be longer than the day. And the rains will come again.
And now, your “Moment of Wee.”