the ghosts of summer

100_2335There’s this feeling I remember in the late days of summer, like a ghostly breath creeping down my back. My hairs stand on end and I squint toward the sky, looking past the low damp clouds and beyond the flecks of glistening dust swirling behind busy harvesters. I’m reminded of this moment in autumn, when time swings around past Hallowe’en, when the cold winds begin to blow and I know I should’ve worn a warmer coat. When mittens and scarves begin to cross my mind, and stray shimmering flakes threaten to blanket the ground. Those days I pull up my collar, wrap my arms across my waist, take a breath and soldier right on past the chill in the air. And soon the days are drifting into a darkness that I’d all but dread if it weren’t for the bubble – the bubble I can’t describe. It pushes so heavily on every good sense I have in my possession, and each moral and every memory, and I try so hard to explain how it makes life feel so “inside” oneself, because the whole world dies all around us. It seems we are all that is left. The leaves have already started changing, the sun lingers longer on the horizon, skirting the curve of the earth ensuring the last few subtle encores of summer can barely, but just slightly, be enjoyed. The smell in the wind of decaying foiliage and freezing soil is so familiar that my shoulders creep toward my ears in anticipation of the heaviness of snow – not piles of snow, but the quiet heavy sound of snow. The crunch of snow, and how that loud reverberation under foot can drown out the whole world. That ghostly breath, the first sign of approaching fall on the wind, the moment my senses can no longer ignore it – when summer has passed the brink and I know a year of my life has some how gone by … again. I will live to see yet another winter. But until the snow breaks through the sky I will witness the world come to the end of its cycle. The end of this cycle. And then the planet around me will go silent and wait, blanketed in snow, surrounded by a bubble, quiet and cold and inside me. But I will still keep going. I must keep going. For I can see this world outside me. I know it’s there when I feel it’s breath on my skin.


About humanbeen

I'm a has-been that was. I'm a dreamer that does.
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One Response to the ghosts of summer

  1. Andrea says:

    Beautiful description Sheri. Love it.

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