But I Don't WANT Summer To End.

I know, as you get older summers get shorter and shorter and shorter ... as a kid there seemed to be almost endless days riding bikes and going to our lake house and swimming and playing and and and and ...

This summer never seemed to even really get here. A lot of it was the weather - cool and cloudy for far too long, and a few short bursts of furnace-like weather ... but the summer things never happened. No swimming, no picnics, no camping. Part of that is my own fault, for not planning ahead and for letting other people at work have their vacations while forgoing mine. Scott wasn't happy about that, but neither was I, not by a long shot. I'm old enough that I should plan ahead, should make sure that things happen the way we want them too, to have our springs and our summers and our falls and our winters be perfect and full of what those seasons are supposed to be full of ... but, daily life drags us all down and suddenly it's September and the sky has changed and the light is so much further south and the garden spiders are out and we realize that the tomatoes aren't going to grow any bigger or redder than they already have. And we start planning for fall, for clearing out the gardens and taking down the hanging baskets and getting out the candles and cooking indoors more than grilling outside. We close the windows at night, clean out the furnace filters, prepare to buy chrysanthemums at the nursery instead of basil.

Part of me - a big part of me - welcomes this time of year. It's always been my favorite time, in an odd way. I like the cool weather, the leaves turning colors, the back-to-school, something new feeling even as parts of our world are dying. It's also the season that my Mom died, and that my Dad died, and of sadness and loss and some of the loneliest days I've ever felt. Why do I like this season that's coming up, even with all of that?

I turn inward this time of year, more than I usually do. I find different music, I crave books to read, I live more in my head than usual. I batten down the hatches, try to think of ways to get us through the next few months, continually examine ways to make things good when it's dark and cold and wet and ... well, scary. Maybe this is the year that I'll actually remodel the downstairs bathroom. Or take out my clarinet again, hoping it isn't cracked beyond repair from so much unuse. Or draw, or write, or ... I don't know. Something.

Something ...