inhale

Today's root beer float party on Yale commenced the beginning of another school year. Balloons adorned the pillars at 1936. Blankets scattered the lawn. Kids dropped backpacks and binders, shed flip flops, and gushed about favorite new teachers, cute boys, class schedules and seating assignments.

Tonight we gathered in the front room, each discussing the events of our day. We tugged open the windows and sprawled across the air mattress (which has become a crucial part of our living room decor as of late). A tepid breeze seemed to announce the Eve of Fall. It floated in and across each of our faces as we talked and laughed and sent N (far away in Deutschland) funny messages, one right after the other. Tonight was, as W. Stevens says, "a perfection of thought." The last breath of summer.

As excited as I am to swap my sandals for boots, my hoodies for pea coats, part of me is still holding out for an Indian Summer. I want to inhale and hold my breath. I love summer in all its spontaneity. The last-minute frozen yogurt runs. The street alive with kids playing kick-the-can and sardines well after the sun has gone down. The chirp of crickets as I fall asleep.

Although I'm certain I'll miss summer in all its ease, I will be o.k. with a slight change of weather - I always am. The crickets' chirp will slow, we'll crack the windows a little less, and usher in Fall, happy and hopeful here in our yellow brick house all the same.