When the night smugly creeps in around 8 p.m., it sneers. The sweaters appear sooner, the dampness of the air is unmistakable, and we clutch onto what is already fading away: the last sentimental days of summer.
They’re gone, often before we realize they’ve really begun. We miss the opportunity to say that this is it, this is what we dream of in February’s doldrums.
Then it’ll be those back-to-school mornings, with the crisp, cool air, and the biggest, brightest, bluest sky of all stretching overhead.
But, here, just slipping through my desperately reaching fingers, I find the fringes of summer, these few remaining days which are not yet stored away in memory. They are, in a sense, blank journal pages waiting for the now to become then so it can be written down, recorded, and looked back on.
Sometimes the memory turns out to be more important than the actual event, doesn’t it?