The end of summer is softer than the death of winter and the birth of spring but somehow sadder and more hopeful, too.
The end of summer is like dusk during the course of a normal day.
The end of summer is guiding our ship past rough waters, taking stock of our anchors, readjusting the compass, drawing ourselves new maps. We kiss goodbye our mermaids and sailors, greet new legs, walk on shore.
In my early twenties I bought a beautiful piece of art entitled "At the End of Summer" and used the line myself in a poem, a ballad that I wrote to a boy I loved who would never be in my life in the same way again.
Summer is wild, unruly and feral.
At the end of summer we repurpose those thoughts and feelings and memories as ritual.
At the end of summer I celebrate the birthdays of two friends whose hearts both almost gave out but who survived against all odds, their hearts too strong and big and beautiful to go. I'm celebrating this week the birthday of a third friend, a newish friend, a beautiful friend who already I cannot imagine life without.
These days I think God gives us the last few weeks of summer to make us truly ready for the commencement of school, in case we had any doubt.