By Carole Leskin
Labor Day weekend. The end of summer. Not really, of course. The calendar tells us that happens on September 22nd. But we know better.
The tourists and summer renters go home. Children go back to school. Families return to their normal, hectic schedules. Carefully tended gardens begin to wilt. And the sun sets earlier as if to say, "Time to go back to work. You've done enough playing for now."
Summer is not my favorite season. I love fall - the colors, fruits and vegetables, crisp air coming through open windows. Wearing sweaters and lighting the fireplace. Walks on brightly colored leaves and listening to them crunch beneath my feet. Hot chocolate and spiced apple cider.
And yet, I always feel this strange sadness as I turn the calendar page to September. A longing. A desire to hold up my hand and say "Stop! I'm not ready". Like I was as a girl - not wanting to leave behind my beloved cabin on the marsh by the bay, my sanctuary, the freedom.
I will look out over the now-almost deserted beach and listen to the seagulls and crashing waves. Watch the sunsets - different now than just a few days ago. I will think about all the summers past and wonder what the fall will bring.
Mother Nature growing older. As am I.
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