After the hail storm, the summer seems to have given in.
The days are noticeably shortening, cooler… the humidity still clings, but something within the sunny days isn’t full of the same hope that it bannered in the early part of June. The clouds have come and are bringing the first longings of autumn.
Time for a nap– the season’s afternoon retreats into the first long shadows of autumn’s early evenings. The heat dissipates, moving away from the cement and into the coastal waters. Flowers sag, tired of searching the soil for water, tired of standing up straight, tired of redirecting nutrients to where they need to go.
I never notice the falling days until someone says that something awful and final: “I think we’ve seen the last of it” or “I think that is it for the year.” The summer dismissed. I am oblivious, buried in my rose scent until that moment, when I look up and the petals have fallen away, replaced with the smell of pencil shavings and ironed shirts.
The moment is lost, between anticipation and absorption. I am holding one in my hand and grasping at the other. Neither one I can hold while reaching for the other. I want the feel of the change and I want to hold onto the sameness.
Ending is a gerund: part action, part noun.
