Late summer

Late summer is the time for living. So rich, soaked with desire, yet troubled by a lingering sense of loss. Life draws closest to itself in the shadow of its decline, when golden sunlight streams through the early evening and a flickering breeze foretells the sweeping winds of autumn.

Autumn is for grieving. A funereal blaze of red and yellow. The world stands as a decaying monument to the irreversibility of time. The other seasons don’t know themselves; winter is a cradle of darkness, spring an instinctual first step, and early summer spans the eternity of youth.

In late August, they’d go together to the rocks by Sachuest point and gaze out to sea. She’d smile and reach for distant worlds; he’d stand skimming stones and try to suspend the sun against the horizon.

On those evenings, life and memory seemed to converge. There was a sense of timelessness but not quite present; the present felt impossible to grasp. It was as though they’d always been there and nothing would ever disturb their trace.

Late summer drifts on the margins between youthful dreams and the reality of remorse. She was close to him, close enough that he knew could never lose her, and yet he ached with the unformed idea that nothing can last.

As evening fell and the roads passed by, he’d sit tranquil with nostalgia whilst she sang to the hum of the stereo. He’d look across and wonder that she was there and that he knew her. How had life brought them here? When she was present, she was his, and he knew her inside and out. But then absence drifted over her, and he groped for her reality and the world she’d formed.

Late summer is the time for living, when life confronts itself blindly. When light finds itself in shade, and love feels itself in the ache of a loss it can’t yet comprehend.

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