Reading in Rittenhouse Square tonight, I could feel fall. During the day it is still agresssively summer, but between the hours of 8 and 9 pm, when the sky is lit with angular, streaky rays of light, and a breeze makes the leaves in the trees flounce with attitude, I can sense the presence of fall.
I have mixed feelings about the prospect of summer ending. I love September and October, with it’s crisper air and nights where you finally need a comforter on your bed again, but I had such plans for this summer, most of which I haven’t gotten to. I find myself trying to slow down the moments and I hang on to the minutes of warmth and sunshine with fists clenched tight. I can’t get enough Jersey tomatoes, peaches, summer squashes and ripe melon, as if buy ingesting the bounty of the season, I will be able to hold on to it longer.
When fall finally arrives to stay, I will welcome it, but right now I’m just not ready. Is that really so wrong?