Summer brings with it the weight of memory, no other season carries burdens such as these. A tumult of too long days and nights too hot for rest. This county is haunted by summer, in every dizzy drive through the blazing canyons, in the drowned bodies in the flooded rivers, athirst by autumn. In the siren song of fire trucks and patrol cars, and the dry dance of star thistle and burr.
Yet August is a month of slow dreams, the light beginning to gather the soft edges of Autumn’s glow. The crepe myrtle shedding it’s blossoms in warms lines along the sidewalk, petals becoming brown edged lace, the roses spider-limbed, heavy with berries. A wind will rise by the end of the month, to chase all our old ghosts back into our bones, where they will settle in for the long dark, when once we had struggled to shed them like clothes on the riverbank.
Every old song echoes and pulls, old regrets and realizations, a slow settling into the soft-edged disappointments of adulthood. All wrapped in thread bare blankets touched by so many hands. Hands of lovers, hands of friends, and those that hovered somewhere in between, just beyond the reach of my vision.
The weight of a thousand worries hang like anchors from my flesh, holding me here, desperate to be swept to sea by the tide. Riding the waves, riding the waves, yet never leaving shore.
I want to suspend myself in story, crystalline and caught, a fly in amber, a mouse before the cobra. I want to lose myself in the ebb and flow of narrative, the catch of breath, the thunderous heart. I want this more than anything, but the fear has found it’s way, insidious, quiet and sinister, leaking into my bones with nary a whisper, like Autumn’s first frost, delicate and fragile, leaving death in it’s wake.
The mountains will call with songs of mist and empty roads, I cannot ignore their plea for long, torn between earth and sea. I will find a home someday, nestled among the tall trees, where I can smell the surf and see the peaks from a small garden edged with fallen oak limbs.