Graveyard of Summer

Sunset rests on the treeline like a glowing cap before cooly slipping beyond dusk. Mourning doves coo back and forth alongside the sounds of children reveling in their last hurrah before school begins. I hear Lexi's Ferling Etudes flutter into the bruising sky as I turn to make my way up the street towards home. Cicada rattling, acorns rolling down roofs, night falling sooner than I am ready.

Maybe I will stay up late enough to see the Northern Lights. Or maybe I will sleep all night long for the first time in years. Oh August . . . why must you always be the graveyard of summer?

Chicory and lace. Monarchs in a sweet tango around mauve-y milkweed blooms. Krishnamurti said: when you see yourself clearly you can discard the mirror. This Narcissus story line just does not quit!

Zucchini and summer squash take over the garden, and a monster volunteer butternut squash plant covers the entire compost pile. It gains height along the wooden privacy fence, almost climbing over and I just love watching it GO.

And yet, B's belongings gather in the living room. Star Wars coffee mug, board games, his self-built computer, a favorite blanket, guitar . . . his collection of being stacks up against my tightening chest. Maybe I won't really miss him; maybe I will miss the story of him.

The thing about the Narcissus story is that we are all Narcissus and we are all the reflecting pond, that is, until we find the necessary death within this life. People love us; we love others; and we love ourselves. But the truth about Love is just beyond the veil of everything you have thought or made. Get in the pond, splash around a bit, swim and dive deep – what we are truly looking for is not on the surface.