OK, it’s not over yet, but it’s evaporating. It will be over, kaput, over a period of the next 4 weeks. I love juicing the nostalgic high of “Oh, today’s the last day of Summer… ” for all it’s worth. The drooping plants awaiting the last burst of growth (yes, most plants grow quite a bit in late Summer/Fall), the crickets wailing before their long diminuendo, the air, sturdy by day, now becomes fickle with chill at night. I relish these days more than the squandered mid-summer weeks, where days skulk past while we revel in uncaged exuberance. I feel a poignant mix of emotions, glad for the relief from heat, sad for the holes through which so much joyous time slipped.

This is one of my favorite seasons. call it Flummer or Sall, wistful at loss, pregnant with expectation. Yet this year, I also feel a hollowness, a weight, of real (unnecessary) loss in the ravaged South, of real fear at the way the world is pointed. It’s a pit in my stomach which won’t go away. Won’t go away.