The past few mornings, as I've stepped out the front door, I've scrunched up my nose at the chill in the air and said to my rosebushes, "Well, it seems that September's upon us again, huh?" And those rosebushes bob their little pink heads back at me sadly because, you know, September means the end of roses. September is the end of a lot. September is the end of sno-cones. September is the end of summer. And I love summer. Sometimes I wish summers would last forever and ever.
But summers don't last. They can't. Because if summer lasted forever pretty soon we'd all get tired of swimming and sno-cones and fireworks and school would never start so we couldn't ever get new school supplies and also we couldn't have things like pumpkin soup or cocoa or molasses cookies.
Despite all my heartbreak over the end of summer, I find I deeply love September. It's simply the most beautiful month, isn't it though? It's warm enough that you don't need a sweater but just cool enough that you could wear a cardigan if you wanted. (So help me, I love cardigans.) Target's shelves are stacked with bright yellow boxes of Crayola markers and shiny notebooks. All the fall decorations come out in September, too! The oranges and the yellows and the leaves and the gourds. I love decorating in the fall. And fall is exciting because it's just the beginning of all the fun: harvests and pumpkin carving and Thanksgiving and also PIE. September is the end of a lovely summer, but also the door to a beautiful and wonderful and magical time.
I've reached a September in my life. One happy summer is closing and a beautiful fall is waiting for me. And though I see that this fall is everything--exactly everything--I want, I hesitate for a moment and indulge my ache for one more simple summer day. One more sunny afternoon, one more baseball game, one more popsicle.
But then a scrunch up my nose, wink at my poor roses and run out to meet my September.