The dog days of summer - #101

Falling.

God September is a romance, huh? Will they, won’t they, the crisp breeze swinging into the party, only there long enough to lock eyes and leave. Just another night of humidity without reprieve. You’re in the unrelenting sun when it creeps up your spine like cool breath. “Fall is coming,” everyone says, blessed with the premonition of a cold morning. “I can feel it.” 

It’s such a relief when summer caves in on itself, when the expectations lower and the season of routine sets in. The season of When Harry Met Sally and Practical Magic, of notebooks and soup. Maybe it’s the old memories of it, of losing summer to the coming chill. No longer did you have to judge whether or not you were adequately tan or adequately fun. All the lives you weaseled in and out of burrowed back into the ground, another season’s ghosts. And in their absence, this uncanny version of yourself, same as ever but with so much potential — so much potential in fact it made me throw up every first morning of the new school year. Absolutely gagged with options.

Now, fall means I can sleep. The sun angle changes, slinking away from my bedroom to peer into someone else’s window. The air cools and the logs shrink, letting the tendrils of night reach into the gaps of my bedspread, searching for bare ankles to twist around and beckon to the floor. 

But not yet. 

September is merely the promise of fall. You can put on your sharpest sweater, play only Bon Iver and Joni Mitchell, and summer will still rule the party in a slip dress and an aperol spritz. Save your Meg Ryan and Manhattans for October. How can one even stomach pumpkin on a seventy degree day? If only to be dragged by the senses one month forward and countless years back to color-coded folders and the clank of lockers and corn stalks tied with twine to the porch. 

The sun is setting at dinner time, though, shutting the blinds on a full stomach. At least she gets it. No more 9pms on the asphalt, still warm under foot. She’s as eager for fall as we are — she’s got to bring spring somewhere else. Her absence makes space for brooding. The longer nights lead to longer longings. Summer loses her grip when the stars come out. She might have the blistering of the high sun, but the green of the leaves has lost its luster and fall sneaks in at night. You can stand in the creeping wind of the evening and wrap your arms a little tighter, shove your pockets a little deeper, and breathe. Summer’s not watching at night. You can embrace fall like a lover. 

The embrace is brief, though. Too risky to let it linger. You would find a way to leave summer behind, but she always leaves first. She packs her bags while you’re eyeing a farmstand of peaches and tomatoes. She gives it her all, sweat shimmering on her collarbone, but the party always turns on her — she’s never the It Girl for long. Every conversation diverts from backyard BBQs to back to school, sunscreen to sweatshirts, and she’s left standing there with an emptying glass while the menu changes behind her back. She’s meaner now, hot headed and cruel. Too many years of people buying too many things in an effort to drown her out. They love her, they adore her, they forget her. Fall never overstays their welcome, they don't know how. They take their cues from the leaves, gone before you had a chance to say how you felt.

But not yet. 

For now, fall’s lovers simply practice their speeches in the mirror, shoulders still bare, summer just out of ear shot. “I’ve been thinking about you,” they would say. Something where the heft is in the hands of the receiver, where they can always back down with, “as a friend, of course.” But fall knows. 

The hot drink on a hot day, sweater tied around the waist, a sudden interest in the occult. A crush on fall is obvious if you’re looking. And who hasn’t dreamed of what they can’t have. Summer has an ever dripping affair so long as you’ll land between her latitudes. And those who find themselves cunning enough to play winter’s games can spend all year in her bed. But fall never stays, you would merely chase them around the world, just another leaf on the wind. 

Their cool hands will graze your skin, wrapping you in blankets, lighting candles of sandalwood and musk, and they’ll curl up next to you to watch as the leaves begin to blush, embarrassed they were ever so green, and they’ll press a hand to your cheek as they do every year, if only to remind you that however brief, the romance was real. 

But not yet.

“There are some things though I know for certain: always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder, keep rosemary by your garden gate, plant lavender for luck, and fall in love whenever you can.” - Practical Magic