I am done with spring. Spring, move on. I have had it with breathing through soup. I am done with the ever-present sinus headache. The lawn, the garden, the paddocks are mocking me and I’ve had enough.
I’ve heard October is lovely this time of year. No holidays more demanding than Halloween, the school routine is pleasantly rote, and that smell – leaves, wood smoke, rotting plants – attaches itself to my hair and clothes and makes me productive.
October all year round. I think I’ll start a petition.
Leaf piles, sweaters, clogs, pumpkins on the porch – pumpkins smile even before their faces are carved, have you noticed? They love October, too. We all have to die someday, they think. Might as well go out with a bang. Or a sizzle. Danced around by a smiling child dressed as the devil. Or Harry Potter.
We are supposed to love summer with its long days and minimal dress requirements, but I’m happy to skip this princessy season. Give me the middle-aged crone of October any day. She’s got secrets. She’s got a sense of humor. She’s got her own style, tinged brown around the edges. That’s who I want sitting next to me at the campfire. We can talk books and dirt. She can give me advice in a hoarse smoker’s voice and I will nod and squint my eyes knowingly at her. She’ll think I’m an innocent hoot. She’ll chuckle to think of the day I too turn cronish and groany. I try to tell her it will never happen. We’ll pass a wine bottle to each other.
I just have to muddle through this sticky season of unstructured summer days. Wish me luck. Wish me popsicles…