Sunflowers
By Carrie Jacobson
Peter filled the feeder for the hummingbirds last night, and they are flashing and happy and drinking up this morning. My guess is that it’s the last time he will fill their feeder this year.
The past two days have been finally, blessedly cool enough that we – finally, blessedly – shut off the window air conditioners and opened the windows wide and let the warm days and cool nights breathe into our little house.
A hurricane is blowing up along the coast, sunset is coming more quickly each day, and grass and gardens all seem dry and brittle and spent.
I’ve always loved fall. I loved school, and fall meant school, and books, and classes and learning, and I loved all of that. It meant new clothes, and nights where I could wear shorts and sweaters, and it meant the trees coming alive with color – and I loved all of that.
I luxuriated in this summer’s golden twilights and slow, lengthy dawns. I soaked up the sun and the glorious flowers and all the brilliance and shine of this summer’s steamy, sunny days. And much as I love fall, I’m sad to see these broad, open days pass.
A friend of mine died this week, a friend from high school. We reconnected last year, both of us sober for decades, and blessed to be. We rejoiced in this, and in renewing our friendship, which we’d done by computer.
She showed up at one of my shows this summer, a wisp of what she had been, thin and dry as the August grass. But her smile was beautiful and her joy genuine, and we talked and laughed and hugged, and said we’d get together soon.
We did not. And now, she’s gone.
Autumn comes too soon, stealing summer’s wealth, and death comes too soon, as well.
I must remember this.
