Yes, technically it’s not the end of summer, just the end of August. But in my mind, anyway, the last day of August marks the end of the season. We drank a toast to the summer last night, to our daughter, who will be returning to college in Ontario. To the lovely times we three have had together, doing nothing too terribly exciting, but relaxing in each others’ company. I know what a gift that is. Maybe the end of summer blues will hit me at some point, but right now I’m looking at what we’ve had, and I’m happy. I’m content. 

Summer wasn’t perfect, but it was good. We did very little, but we did it well. And the garden grew, and there were flowers, and now the flowers are declining, as they will, and that’s also good and fine. 

I’m not one who is inclined toward parties, but I like this poem by Becca Klaver:

Fall Parties

I cannot wait for fall parties. 
The invitations have begun to roll in.  

I used to think I loved summer parties
until they got this year so sweaty and sad,  

the whole world away at the shore, 
sunk in sweet and salt. 

Goodbye, summer:            
you were supposed to save us 

from spring but everyone just slumped
into you, sad sacks   

pulling the shade down on an afternoon  
of a few too many rounds. 

Well, I won’t have another. 
I’ll have fall. The fall of parties  

for no reason, of shivering rooftops, 
scuffed boots, scarves with cigarette holes.  

I’ll warm your house. 
I’ll snort your mulling spices. 

I’ll stay too late, I’ll go on a beer run, 
I’ll do anything   

to stay in your dimly lit rooms  
scrubbed clean of all their pity.

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So cheers to the end of summer, and cheers to fall, and good thoughts that we may all go on being content, at least that.