Soon, the deck chairs will hibernate. (Photo credit: Amadeu Sanz)
Summer is fading.
I always know my birthday is getting close because I can feel it in the air.* The sun doesn’t seem as warm, nights get cooler, and the kids around the neighbourhood pool have a frantic air, as if they know this won’t last. And it won’t, of course. Soon fall will be here and they’ll be trudging to school while I watch them from my back deck with hot tea in hand and laugh.**
I’m okay with this. I like to look outside and see the leaves staring to fall. And feel the chill in the night. I might have been born in the summer, but in my heart I belong to the autumn. I belong to cool winds and early evenings and bonfires. You can keep your heat and bikinis and cocktails with little umbrellas. Give me crisp air, sweaters, and a good smoky scotch.
Still, there’s something melancholy about the fade. It’s the slow fall into winter, sometimes graceful, sometimes not. It’s the ending.
So today, I want you to write about an ending. A slow fade into nothing. The end of a season, a day, a relationship, a life, a labour…all things end. It’s not always a sad ending; some things are better off done. But there’s an end in there somewhere.
I’m going to go get my sweaters out of the attic.
*And, you know, because I can read a calendar. Shut up. Trying to make a point here.
**Maniacally, of course.
Bare Knuckle Writer 