Home to September

              It is September: real life returns after the suspended time of summer. Summer no longer means freedom to me--freedom from what, when I am no longer working? Summers are too hot, I can't enjoy being outside; by August there is a heaviness, an inertia in the air. The first cool days and nights are such a relief.
     
             Even when autumn meant school and all its pressures, I welcomed the clearness of the days and the undercurrent of melancholy. I have always been a minor mode kind of person, feeling the contrasts, the way a warm, lit house welcomes me when the weather is cold. Life is precious when you know it will end; not in a morbid way, not as a depressed person, but as the poets have always known. Perhaps because I have been fortunate in my life, I seek the balance of a streak of sadness, the knowledge that I am alone, and all this beauty is a temporary gift.