Summer is fleeting. It’s moving away from me—moonwalking just out of my reach. I missed the heart of summer. There was so little time for fairs, and games, rides and elephant ears—I missed put-put golf, patios, and ice-cream trucks singing “Pop Goes the Weasel.” The days are shorter, nights darker—the call of morning birds comes later and later, and more quietly as if they too sense Fall sneaking up just around the next corner and are hushed to hide in plain sight. Maybe if Fall can’t see us, then she won’t come?
Maybe I am more nostalgic now. Now that S will be two years old. Two years I have lived with her (longer if you count gestation)—for two years my life has been transformed, in transformation. Out of all the years (thirty-five to date) two seems few, seems small, seems like a blip of time. But measured against the enormity of these two years, it seems that I’ve never lived without her. How did I ever live without her? Who would I be without being S’s mama? No one (not now that I am.)
Next summer, my dear baby, there will be fairs, and put-put, and “Pop Goes the Weasel.” And more swimming, my fearless water-loving child. We will take swim lessons this winter and tumbling too. More fun to have, just fun inside away from the cold and rain and frost.
For now, we have sun. A few more days at the pool for you, tan and splashing in the fountains.