Do I have to write about fall?

I'm not there yet.

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I’ve never found it easy to let go of summer. 

Maybe because it means leaving our family cottage after a few short months of being within two blocks of the beach, catching up with accidentally fair weather friends, and throwing myself into heart-stuttering trysts I knew would end come Labor Day. 

Maybe it’s the dwindling daylight, closing in like one of those walls meant to trap Indiana Jones (except he always found a way out). 

Maybe I just don’t like the cold. Full stop. 

Girl who doesn’t want summer to end.

I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the seasons. I wouldn’t ever live somewhere without them – but summer feels particularly short in the Northeast. If the year is a cake, summer doesn’t feel like a slice. It feels like a garnish. Perhaps a dusting of powdered sugar for appearance.

I understand the eagerness to move on from summer. Fall is cozy, comforting. Where warmth radiates from wool sweaters and sooty fires and apple cider. Heat is controlled in the fall, waiting to be invited in like a polite guest, rather than cooking us every time we step outside. 

But still, I can’t help but feel that summer is always cut short. I barely have time to enjoy the sun setting past 8PM before I scroll past a tweet that says “this is the last week the sun will set after 8PM until May.” Like, it costs $0 not to tweet that. And now I’m sad.

Summer is like a peach. Ripe only for a fleeting moment, barely long enough to slurp up its sweetness before it's soft enough to bruise beneath your fingers. 

Why do we rush an already short season? “Be present!” they say, then push the present to the past. “Enjoy the moment!” they say, unless you’re bored with the moment. 

There’s this frantic race to post the film roll to Instagram, stash away the tank tops, wrap up summer with a dainty little bow because the Walmart ad said it’s back to school season. 

I still want to write about that season we waited all year for. The season of sprinkles on soft serve and buttery lobster rolls. The season of splaying out by the water with a book in hand, trying to keep sand from burrowing into the spine. Of bright guitars soundtracking open-window drives, of sunglasses slipping down sweaty, salty noses. Sunshine for breakfast, heirloom tomatoes for lunch and ice cream for dinner. 

My red bikini still has that sunscreen smell, my brunette hair still wears hints of honey. My tote bag is still a sand depository, and that crisp line on my back from when I dozed off on the beach back in June hasn’t faded a bit. 

I am different in the summer. I’m not concerned with looks, any fixation on what’s in the mirror jettisoned into the churning sea, like I talked about in this post. I make friends with strangers on ferries to New England islands. I wake up earlier, move more, sink my iced coffee-stained teeth into fresh, in-season food. I’m lighter, less serious, with a slight decrease in motivation that I welcome (after 22 years of school, I have accepted that I’m not hardwired to feel motivated between June-August).  

Photo by me :)

I’m not ready to let go of all of the above, especially not before the autumnal equinox formally coronates itself on September 22. 

If you’re buzzing for crisper temperatures and pumpkin everything, that’s cool. I’ll meet you there later. 

But if you’re like me, don’t feel bad about taking your time. Fall isn’t going anywhere. Give yourself permission to fully experience this season before it slips out the door. 

Life gives us lemonade once a year. Let’s taste the last few sips before we order pumpkin spice.