Summer's Last Kiss
That was yesterday. 93 degrees.
Honestly? It felt glorious. T came home from work and mowed the back yard, finally dry after a week of cold, rainy days. I sat outside, a magazine splayed open in my lap, not reading. I just couldn't. This day was begging to be admired. I looked over at our poor tomato plants. They were sgraggly from the 50 degree weather and constant pattering of rain. Several light pink tomatoes hung loosely. One good tug and they would fall. This time of year is not kind to plant life. I carefully examined them, decided that they would be okay for a couple more weeks and after that, I would bring them in to ripen on our kitchen window sills. My herbs had already been harvested and were in our basement on racks, drying, making the laundry room smell deliciously of lemon verbena, Russian lavender, basil, chives, sage, and rosemary. They would be transferred into little pots and bags for stocking stuffers in early December.
But, the weather was just too glorious to ignore. Singed with heat, but it was a false heat, a goodbye kiss. No promise of more. The trees, still green, but not the heady green of Spring nor the bright green of Summer, were pale green and seemed shocked at the sudden warmth. Leaves that had started their march to gold and orange, were now thinking twice about it. The wind made them sway back and forth, like old ladies at a wedding. They felt too old to really shake a leg, but the joyous circumstances made it irresistible, they danced anyway.
I sat in my pink and gold sleeveless sundress and watched as the sun beamed hot and bright in a sky so blue that it hurt to look up at it. Mosquitoes who had been sluggish and lazy began to get cheeky and pesky. I slapped one, then two, and then three. Didn't care. This day was too pretty to care.
The weather forecast said that a cold front would be sliding back in on the evening star and I could already feel hints of it on my arm and shivered in anticipation.
I thought of my Dad. How, every year, after we had turned off the one air conditioner that cooled our whole downstairs, there would come one last day of heat. I would say that I wished we hadn't turned the air conditioner off because in our house, when the air conditioner went off, it was off until the next Summer. My Dad would laugh and say, "You have to let Summer have one last day to say goodbye. Show her stuff."
And we would. And here we were doing it again. I put down the magazine, its pages blowing up time and time again in Summer's last hot breath. I sat quietly and just breathed in the hot air, closed my eyes and felt the sun's rays press against my eyelids making wild purple and green splotches erupt. I concentrated on feeling the air on my skin.
It was truly wonderful.
Later, after the lawn mowing, we would head to the park with some leftover dinner for Jeremy, the fox. As we passed the bank, T said, "Look at the flags blowing. The air has shifted from south to north. Here comes the cold front." We could feel it as we climbed out of the car. My skin, now under a sweater, goosebumped with the chill.
Summer was gone, taking her bright yellows and greens with her. There was no trace of her. Like a woman who knows her mind, when she leaves, she leaves. Like most smart women, she knows that in order to miss her, we need to feel her absence. When she comes back in about eight months, we will be ready to greet her with open arms, hungry for her gifts of lightning bugs, shimmering rays, sparklers, and swimming holes.
Now, Autumn is taking her place. She is a fleeting sort of gal. She never stays long enough, just enough for us to fall in love with her gypsy dresses and wild hair. Her cool sweater days, letting the sun in just enough to spill pockets of warmth rather than buckets. Long enough for us to go back to deep soft nights of sleep under the blankets instead of kicking them off. Her husky voice will slide around football games and crunching leaves. We'll taste her skin in our pumpkin pies and lattes. And then, WAY before we are ready, she will run off, taking all the golden red leaves with her.
She isn't like Summer. She doesn't believe in one last sentimental..... kiss.
Honestly? It felt glorious. T came home from work and mowed the back yard, finally dry after a week of cold, rainy days. I sat outside, a magazine splayed open in my lap, not reading. I just couldn't. This day was begging to be admired. I looked over at our poor tomato plants. They were sgraggly from the 50 degree weather and constant pattering of rain. Several light pink tomatoes hung loosely. One good tug and they would fall. This time of year is not kind to plant life. I carefully examined them, decided that they would be okay for a couple more weeks and after that, I would bring them in to ripen on our kitchen window sills. My herbs had already been harvested and were in our basement on racks, drying, making the laundry room smell deliciously of lemon verbena, Russian lavender, basil, chives, sage, and rosemary. They would be transferred into little pots and bags for stocking stuffers in early December.
But, the weather was just too glorious to ignore. Singed with heat, but it was a false heat, a goodbye kiss. No promise of more. The trees, still green, but not the heady green of Spring nor the bright green of Summer, were pale green and seemed shocked at the sudden warmth. Leaves that had started their march to gold and orange, were now thinking twice about it. The wind made them sway back and forth, like old ladies at a wedding. They felt too old to really shake a leg, but the joyous circumstances made it irresistible, they danced anyway.
I sat in my pink and gold sleeveless sundress and watched as the sun beamed hot and bright in a sky so blue that it hurt to look up at it. Mosquitoes who had been sluggish and lazy began to get cheeky and pesky. I slapped one, then two, and then three. Didn't care. This day was too pretty to care.
The weather forecast said that a cold front would be sliding back in on the evening star and I could already feel hints of it on my arm and shivered in anticipation.
I thought of my Dad. How, every year, after we had turned off the one air conditioner that cooled our whole downstairs, there would come one last day of heat. I would say that I wished we hadn't turned the air conditioner off because in our house, when the air conditioner went off, it was off until the next Summer. My Dad would laugh and say, "You have to let Summer have one last day to say goodbye. Show her stuff."
And we would. And here we were doing it again. I put down the magazine, its pages blowing up time and time again in Summer's last hot breath. I sat quietly and just breathed in the hot air, closed my eyes and felt the sun's rays press against my eyelids making wild purple and green splotches erupt. I concentrated on feeling the air on my skin.
It was truly wonderful.
Later, after the lawn mowing, we would head to the park with some leftover dinner for Jeremy, the fox. As we passed the bank, T said, "Look at the flags blowing. The air has shifted from south to north. Here comes the cold front." We could feel it as we climbed out of the car. My skin, now under a sweater, goosebumped with the chill.
Summer was gone, taking her bright yellows and greens with her. There was no trace of her. Like a woman who knows her mind, when she leaves, she leaves. Like most smart women, she knows that in order to miss her, we need to feel her absence. When she comes back in about eight months, we will be ready to greet her with open arms, hungry for her gifts of lightning bugs, shimmering rays, sparklers, and swimming holes.
Now, Autumn is taking her place. She is a fleeting sort of gal. She never stays long enough, just enough for us to fall in love with her gypsy dresses and wild hair. Her cool sweater days, letting the sun in just enough to spill pockets of warmth rather than buckets. Long enough for us to go back to deep soft nights of sleep under the blankets instead of kicking them off. Her husky voice will slide around football games and crunching leaves. We'll taste her skin in our pumpkin pies and lattes. And then, WAY before we are ready, she will run off, taking all the golden red leaves with her.
She isn't like Summer. She doesn't believe in one last sentimental..... kiss.
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