it’s august. we are taking summer in our hands and refusing to let her go. while the school kids sport their new shoes and haircuts, we are in our pajamas, making many coffees, and pulling summer slow and long like a pink ball of taffy. we are not going to school, no, we are not doing that yet.
it’s august, the month for the dogs, for last swims and last fast-melting ice creams and the last of the leggy zinnas and bug-eaten morning glories. i love her. i love her more than june this year. i love her almost as much as i love to smash avocados and garlic and limes and cilantro and salt into a guacamole oblivion. this year i love august as much as i love the carousels and the bowls of rinsed cherries and the ripe peaches and the warm breeze at dusk and the firefly fire and the new freckles.
it’s august, the month of the long, sweet goodbye to summer. oh, august. she’s tall and lanky and she’s leaning on the porch railing and she’s not wearing sleeves, or shoes and it’s early evening and she’s taking one last drag on her sultry cigarette and she’s telling us not to hurry off, to sit a spell, to kick back and look at the sky go into night, to wait just a bit before tucking another day away, before letting summer hang her pretty white dress on a hook until the next time she comes around.