Tuesday, September 4, 2007

So Long Summer

I don’t like the day after Labor Day. It’s the unofficial end of summer. It makes me sad. Really, really sad. I mourn the end of summer the way some folks mourn the death of a pet or the end of an era. While everyone else is ready for cooler weather and a change of seasons, I’m bracing myself for the next six months. Six months without flip-flops. Six months without shorts. Goodbye homemade ice cream. Goodbye pool. So long to blinding sunshine and stunning sunsets. A reluctant hello to jackets, coats, gloves and unpredictable weather. I savor every minute of summer, so I hate to let it go. It’s a long distance love affair that leaves me longing for more.

Summer is a fierce mistress. She tickles us with her hot hands and shiny skies. We unashamedly bare our imperfect bodies, hoping for relief from her warm embrace. She’s fickle with her rain, sometimes giving us more than enough, but often teasing us with just a damp kiss. She’s attractive, strong and fast moving. By the time fall rolls around most folks are worn out from her demands and need a break. Not me. I hang on until she slips away in a rustle of smoky leaves.

I hate cool weather. I hate the time change and the shortened days it brings. The gray skies suck the energy right out of me. I stomp through wet, slushy streets with the temper of a two year old. Coats make me grumpy. So necessary and so annoying. The holidays help me to make it through December, but January, February and March are long, dreary months that never seem to end. Ninety days to endure until spring weather. Ninety days until the smell of warm dirt and wild onions work their way back into my days. Ninety days until a glimmer of summer’s return. Ninety l-o-n-g days until the love affair resumes.

Goodbye summer. I hope you’ll stick around a little longer. Another month would be nice, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I’d like to pretend that I won’t care when you’re gone…but I can’t. Honestly, it gets harder each year to say goodbye. I’ll see you in six to eight months. I’ll be right here, waiting patiently for your return…with my flip-flops…and my shorts. You won’t forget about me, will you? I’ll be thinking of you.

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