To a two-year old, a year is half of an entire life. To a 50-year old, it’s a fraction, one fiftieth of one’s time on earth. Someone once pointed this out to me, his way of explaining why time feels as if it passes more swiftly as we grow older. The idea has merit.
Summers felt long, hot and wonderful when I was a child. Summer zips by now, June, July and August an isosceles sliver in the pie chart of my total experience. Blink, and it’s gone. Still hot but much too brief. Before I know it, the leaves will start falling, and the long sleeves come out of storage and return to the closet for active duty.
Some of my friends love the fall, the way the air feels crisp and clean, relief from summer’s heat and humidity. Not me. To me, fall signals an end to summer’s relaxed comfort and a warning that miserable cold weather is coming. To each his or her own, as they say. I have always preferred warmer weather to cold, and that includes summer’s great food — melons, tomatoes, sweet corn. And, of course, baseball.
We of a certain age notice in published obituaries that the ages of our recently departed neighbors appear close to our own. Some younger. We can’t help but wonder many summers we have left.
As I write this, July 2019 has only a few days remaining. August looms, and fleeting summer will end. So soon. Too soon.
This saddens me, but I think I’ll leave the A/C on for a little longer.