The Summer Sun got old yesterday.
You could see a subtle shift in her appearance, the fringe of her golden frock tinged with amber like the cheese gets on the frozen pizzas in my oven. The darker crust speaks to you, saying it’s not quite done, but keep watch or it will burn.
So speaks the Summer Sun’s smile, it’s ordinary frivolity now paired with an almost imperceptible nostalgia.
There’s not much time now; the days are shortening and soon the cool breezes will be crisped with Winter’s soft whisper promising her return.
Soon.
The Summer Sun got old, but she does not regret it. She was strong this year and played her role well. She’s ready. Ready for this year’s turn at autumnal wisdom; the sweet, humming absorption of the year’s final warmth; the refreshed anticipation of harvest bounty; the comforting swath of flannel and jeans and jackets; the reflective pause before sipping a hot cider; the congratulatory pull of the quilt over her head as she lays down to sleep.
And rests.
The Summer Sun got old, but she’s not done yet. It’s only August, after all, and she still likes to play. She’ll come with us to the lake next week, she’ll dance at the last festivals, she’ll help us build another campfire, she’ll rise early with us as we go back to school invigorated for another year’s work.
Yes, the Summer Sun will still play with us.
As she does, the amber fringe of her dress will deepen, spreading along the folds of her skirt, continuing to soften its sparkling hue into rich caramels until, one morning, when we wake to greet her we’ll say to her,
“You look different, somehow.”
Autumn Sun will point to the red and orange leaves and invite us to wander the pumpkin patch with her. As we pull on our boots and take our first steps forward with our new friend, a final laughing summer ray will warm us as if to say,
“Catch ya next year!”
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