You were in my dream last night. We were hiking along the shore together at sunrise. Above the treeline, the sky flushed pink like champagne.
August, you’re here already? I asked. That was quick!
You answered only in the humid breeze.
But I’m still easing into July. Don’t rush me.
I noticed a small yellow flower growing from a rock and stopped to study it more closely. When I continued walking, you walked beside me.
The sun climbed higher into the sky. Ready or not, you planned to stay your fair share of days. I stared into the inky water realizing over half the year had passed me by. What did I have to show for it?
Listen to me, August, there are things I want to do while you are here.
Things like work on those resolutions I promised I’d do this year.
Read a few more of those books on my reading list.
Notice more of the amazing and less of the flaws and clutter.
August, do you remember all those times I tried to wring every drop from you? Never wanting summer to end, never wanting school to start back?
There was a time when August meant one last lake trip, a church revival led by a long-winded preacher we’d never see again, and my friend, Sara’s, birthday party.
Those first childhood friends and cousins—those are the people I remember best during summer when hot days were spent climbing trees and making mudpies and singing silly love songs that weren’t silly at the time.
That’s what I think of when I think of you, August.
August answered only in the warm humid breeze.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
Silly Love Songs, Paul McCartney/Wings
If you missed my letter to July, read it HERE. Or re-read it. That’s allowed, too:))