by R.L. Lake

Created on: September 03, 2009

Summer is over. It won't be official for another few weeks but the signs are there; it's undeniable. This morning, I got out of bed, shivering against the chill that crept in overnight. I pulled on jeans over legs that have lived in the sunlight for the past six months, not caring that my tan has already begun to fade. I walked outside and a strange wind was blowing, lifting my hair up off my neck. The light was different too, the shadows in different places. The air felt charged, electric; notice that the change had already begun.

When I was little, the trees told us when summer was over. We watched them go from green to red, orange, yellow; brilliant starbursts of color. Eventually, they faded to brown and fell, one by one, until the trees were bare. My cousins and I would rake them into piles and then run towards them, waiting until the last second to jump. In that brief moment before we landed, there was sheer joy.

We spent hours this way, building piles and then destroying them, the leaves working their way into our hair, down our shirts. I loved the sound they made, a sharp crackle, and their crisp, faintly sweet scent. Eventually, my granny would drag us out and then set fire to our handiwork. We would stand watching, listening to the leaves hiss and pop until there was nothing left but smoke and ash. We never thought of the trees, who shed their beauty so quickly, never wondered if they mourned the loss.

The trees here are different. There are no seasons here, only degrees of heat. The trees don't register the change and so they remain stupidly, faithfully green. Autumn, to them, is a brief moment, a pause between the heat of summer and the gray skies of winter. Only the pine trees know something is different, their thin needles fading, stiff and brown. This is the time of year when I miss the mountains most, when they look as if they're on fire, burning with color.

What fall used to mean: plaid skirts and wool tights; Halloween and hay rides; picking apples with my mother; walnuts dropping like rocks against the tin roof of our house; the sound of shotguns announcing the beginning of hunting season; chopping wood and canning vegetables; sealing up the windows in advance of the long winter ahead.

Now it means sleeping with the windows open. It means windblown cheeks and chapped lips. It means the state fair, corn dogs and cotton candy. It means hot apple cider and new boots and finding the perfect pair of jeans. It means learning to be alone, learning to enjoy the pleasure of my company.

I'm not sorry to see the summer go. There is only the future for me now; there is no looking back. A change is coming; it's in the air. And I am running towards it, eyes open, ready to jump.

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