Is it wrong that summer makes me crave the fall?
It reeks of sacrilege.
When I was young, summers were spans of long shoe-free, school-free days that hardly began before they ended. As the sun hung heavy overhead, my mother would start the fans, draw the shades and send me out to play with a knobbly cucumber in hand. Each bite exploded and dripped down my chin until all that remained was the bitter end.
Much, in fact, like summer itself.
I love summer days wiled away by the water and nights spent staring up at the stars (it seems impossible that all those lights hang in three dimensions). I love the steady warmth of sunlight on my shoulders. I still get excited to eat cucumbers in one go.
But I get restless. I want the blackberry bushes to shed their flowers for fruit. I mentally paint the trees shades of red and rusty orange. My collection of canvas jackets hangs in the closet, waiting for the days when I can again have warmth in the face of the brisk.
In the meantime, I hike, and look forward to the day when a path is actually a path rather than a poison ivy exposure test. Summer reigns abundant but some things serve a better purpose as detritus.
|There was actually no poison ivy on this particular hike. |
I am somehow never inspired to take a picture when I'm dodging leaflets three.