August: A Month of Sundays
Oh August,
How I struggle with you. We start out all smiles, a big, brilliant grin, but by the end, my heartstrings are torn to shreds. It happens each time we meet. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not.
August, you are a month of Sundays. At the beginning, you are Sunday morning with the entire day laid out before me, full of possibilities and promise. You lure me in, all long and lovely. The sun rises early, as if to say, “Come on! Get moving! Let’s not waste a single moment.” And I don’t. As soon as my summertime bare feet hit the floor, I take off under the brilliant blue sky, gorgeous white clouds, and that hot, hot sun. Hearts soar and adventures are boundless.
You bring the good stuff. The rainbow of zinnias burst, golden peaches are fresh and sweet, and savory basil perfumes the air. Yellow heads of sunflowers salute the dawn as they face east each day. Your soundtrack is the Indigo Girls: “Get out the map, get out the map, and lay your finger anywhere down.” Somehow, that map always leads to the coast; nothing is more pure than salty August air at the top of the Cape Cod dunes.
And, oh, those colors in your sky. The liquid symphony of orange and red that bleed to yellow and ultimately to a purple haze the likes of which I get lost in every time. Then you really turn on the lightshow. Fireflies dance in Morse Code out in the shadows of the trees, and the sky is peppered with illimitable constellations that leave me awe-struck and remind me just how tiny I am in this vast, immeasurable universe. I’m entranced by the promise that Saturn’s rings are visible in your night’s sky. These languid moments you offer beguile me so sweetly. It’s no wonder I fall in love with you each year.
Too soon, you become noontime, and I start to notice a shift. Suddenly I’m scrambling to make the most of the daylight I have left. There’s even a little denial on my part. I try to convince myself there’s loads of hours left to enjoy. I revel longer and ignore the tell-tale signs until I can’t deny them any longer. The dawn doesn’t break quite as early, and the night falls just a little sooner. The sun, still brilliant, sets a little lower in the southern sky. I am woefully cognizant of an impending change. The air smells of transition.
By evening’s onset, I sigh because I know the end is palpable, but I can’t contend with real life just yet. My heart flutters in a frantic attempt to stop time. August, you don’t come with a pause button, and the harder I try to grasp these moments, hold them fast, the more they slip through my fingers and become breaths of memories. This is where my heartstrings start to unravel.
Fall is not yet born, but I see September on the horizon. While I know it, too, brings its own grace, I’m not quite ready to welcome it eagerly. This is an annual dance we do. Each year, I find myself holding out hope that this picnic sweetness will hover just a little longer, these days will go by just a little bit slower. I savor that last flicker of light before Summer’s hand slides from mine and whispers goodbye. Oh August, you’d think I’d be used to this by now, but I’m not.
