August to Autumn

Summer has slipped quietly into memory. The air still hums with warmth, but the season of freedom—the weeks of long mornings, of wandering and lollygagging—has drawn to a close. I knew it would. It always does. That’s the way of things.
This summer did not fly by in a blur; it stretched, slow and generous, like a deep breath I didn’t know I needed. I woke to mornings without obligations, with no destination waiting. I lingered in the garden—small but abundant—watering when I wished, clipping blooms, photographing their brief perfection as reminders of what thrived and what faltered.
From the comfort of my deck, I listened to the familiar symphony of summer: the laughter of children splashing in plastic pools, the whir of lawn mowers, motorcycles humming faintly on distant roads, aspens whispering secrets to the breeze. This year the storms spared my little patch of green, and with the rains it grew lush, like a pocket of jungle in the city.
I walked miles, not every day, but enough to feel my body lengthen into the years ahead. I began books and paintings, though few found their endings. I prayed often, as my grown children scattered into adventures—motorbikes on open roads, camping trips under wet skies, transatlantic flights for work. They lived widely; I lived quietly, and still, through them, I lived.
It feels almost like I am writing one of those old school essays: What I Did on My Summer Vacation. Perhaps teachers still assign them. My list is modest, and maybe that is why summer stretched so long. There was space. And space is its own kind of abundance.
Tomorrow, I return. To work. To closed-in shoes and cafeteria routines. To beef burgers, pizza, chicken fingers. To the steady rhythm of service.
And yet, as autumn opens before me, I feel anticipation more than loss. This has always been my favourite season. The nostalgia of new notebooks and sharpened pencils. The comfort of sweaters—my truest companions. The farmer’s markets brimming with promise, baskets filled for canning and pies. A season that insists on gratitude, on gathering, on giving thanks. Though gratitude should not be seasonal, autumn reminds me to practice it more deeply.
I think of the girl I once was, walking home from school, scattering leaves with each step, delighting in the sound of their crisp surrender underfoot. That memory lives in me still, bright as the turning trees.
And so I move forward, season into season. Not with sadness, but with thankfulness for the gifts of what has been, and with a heart open to what is yet to come.