Seasons

I woke this morning in a fit of dread and didn't want to leave my bed because of this day's date. Sunday the 20th of August, only 7 days left of my summer.



I have a terrible tendency to prematurely call the seasons (just ask Shelley). My sense of the seasons runs not so much according to the calendar but according to when I perceive the minutest changes. The first camellia blooms, albeit a week before another snow flurry, and I announce Spring's arrival. The first 70 degree day arrives, albeit sandwiched between 4 weeks of rain and hail, and I call Summer. The first fall clothing catalogue arrives, albeit in July, and I pronounce Fall's arrival. The first street ices over, albeit in October, and Winter has come.



Mostly, perhaps, the seasons change for me in accordance with my still in school schedule. I still have an August to August day planner, after all. And, just as the kids go to buy their pencils and protractors this time of year, I can't fathom summer continuing once I return to the classroom on the 28th.



I worry that this will be the last Summer of Love. I worry that we're beginning a bit of a diaspora. I worry that this may be the last summer we're not quite grown up. Young enough to pin our hopes on Summers of Love. Katrina may move. Shelley hints at moving. And if you all leave, why will I stay? You are my home.



I'm no longer good at leaving. I finally found what I'm looking for, I guess. Still I see a great saudade setting in this Fall. Exactly the way Fall should be. Great boots, falling leaves, brisk air, a bit of sadness in the eyes, a wistfulness. This will get me through to the holidays, when I'll call Winter and you'll shriek "NO, NO, STOP IT!!! WE'VE GOT, LIKE, TWO MORE MONTHS OF FALL..."