The summer, faithless hag, appears to be diminishing in her affection. Yellow school buses ominously portend the end. I sit at the corner waiting indefinitely to make a left turn as the buses relentlessly roll. The ease of the summer months is scandalous. The easy drives to work without the hassle of buses. The needlessness of hat, gloves or coat. The hot massage of the nylon lounge chair, baked to five degrees over body temp, against your skin. The vacations. The free days of Memorial Day-Independence Day-Labor Day.
Here it is a day shy of September and I haven’t spent one glorious day watching the Cincy Reds. Haven’t gone to one Shakespeare at Schiller Park. When I’m sitting in the sun in late August/early Sept it feels similar to the way I felt going to last couple college football games at my alma mater – spoiled by nostalgia. It was no longer about the moment – it was about something else. About remembrance of times past.
As a wiser self intuited: the summer wanes and wastes away, the tomatoes and peaches small recompense. Her last days feel strangely uncharismatic; we look forward already to autumn, not wishing to witness her long Roman decline and fall. The fruits fall from the vine, begging to be picked, the natural course of things goes on, and God, in his heaven, always manages to replace creation with greater creations, the old Law with the New in the unending march towards perfection.