My second entry on Collecting Raindrops...One year later. (Relevant because one year later, we are once again living in The House of the Communal Cold.) Enjoy.
The Wrath of August
“Summer’s almost over. Quick! Have Fun!” –Calvin and Hobbes
We are serving time in The House of the Communal Cold.
The girls are barely protesting their incarceration, their minds going numb from all of the exposure to music videos on the Disney Channel.
The baby is walking around with her face pinched like a cranky Kewpie doll. She sounds like a freight train when she sleeps. I’m thinking about submitting her to Guinness World Records for “Noisiest Sleeper-Under 20 Pounds.” If the category doesn’t exist, I bet they’ll consider creating it after experiencing her multi sensory rumble.
I don’t think we’re supposed to get sick in the summer. There should be legislation. These bright warm days are too valuable to be wasted on couch cushions and Sudafed.
But this has been my experience with August…the days of disenchantment.
I have a profound appreciation for the season changes.
I enjoy the deepening color palette of fall.
But these fairer days are the blue chip days. The sun and sky beckon me outside and encourage me to peel back layers of clothing so that I am far closer to naked than I ever ought to be in public. The intoxicating midday heat and thrill of the afternoon thunderstorm hypnotize me so that is hard to recall the snowstorms and thermometer readings below 80 from all those months ago. I become an irreverent, stoned hippie. I won’t be kept down by things like appointments and responsibilities. That’s for cold weather people, man.
But the heavy footsteps of August jar me out of my drunken stupor.
The ideal season of summer is coming to an end. It is in these days that I come eye to eye with the things I have not done, the closets I have not cleaned, the books I have not read or written, the trips I have not taken, the dentist appointments I have not rescheduled, the days wasted in the air conditioning, the tall, slender pepper plants who have yet to produce a pepper. Time is running out.
Day dreaming, June’s decadent abandon, becomes August’s nasty habit.
I find myself feverish, running task to task, half assing all of them in an attempt to check any of them off the list.
I suppose, if it were not for the colds in August, as unwelcome as the early morning alarm, I’d continue to dance in my dusky delusion, only to be slapped awake by September.