Summer Dies Slowly
The powerful summer dies only after it has stayed for too long. Until it fades into the grander, more mellow autumn. I grieve the summer only as it dies. After its death, I abandon its beauty and the innumerable gifts and memories it has bestowed. I leave them to be rediscovered in the vague archives of memory, where events become entangled with emotions, smells, and memories of forgotten people. Summer dies slowly. As the mighty aging sun succumbs to its mortality, its blinding white brilliance is replaced by a mature golden-orange glow. The large green persimmon leaves can no longer hide their browning curled edges. The broad expansive day begins to shrink, still fighting back against the ascendant night. Back-to-school advertisements creep into the newspapers. Golden rays of sunset stretch out upon the two-story houses as the day ends, each day a few moments earlier than the previous day. Freedom. Lemonade. Popsicles. Cold baths. Water guns. 2% milk. Dirty feet. Stiff dry blades of ...