The Paper Year

While summer’s heat and haze remain apparent, all other aspects of life one comes to associate with the blistering season are braced for sudden expulsion. The season will end, just as all things do, with school and shoes and a slight crispness to the air. We will barrel into a soaking autumn that rolls undefined into the infinite grayness of southern winters. Weeks with biting winds and colorless sleet, for what? Two snow days. This season will be a long one. Burt’s Bees and Earl Gray and the color red comfort lonesomeness, but all bring back ex-lovers. The winter will linger long past February, March, and – could it be? – even April. The months will feel like years, color will be forgotten, and the swift flurry of Christmas cheer evaporated. Finally the slightest green glow will paint itself into the underbrush. The rigid air will drop its formality. Daphodills give the romantics hope, and later on the tulips will slough the last winter frost. The long awaited spring will rush by – dripping, luscious – masked by finals and break ups and taxes. Then summer will blossom, turn the rain into steam, and hang over the city. The children grow restless, teenagers horny. Everywhere there’s the impatient frenzy of anticipation. The last bell rings, and youth crowd the streets. Goodbyes, hellos, another year’s adventure.