September

Oh September, you dog you. You big behemoth of disappointment and relief, sadness and newness. August is the Sunday of the year. Sure it's still summer but you can't stop thinking about September. This doorstep into the cold.

Your chill is so damn sudden. I was just complaining about summer heat and you were like, "OK, don't like it? Here." Slap on some frost and bring a shudder of high school football pracitice. Those chilly mountain mornings doing pushups in frozen grass. I remember grunting against the ground and wondering about one blade of grass. What would I be doing when it's cut and gone? I would think, actually hope, I'd be something better than a cold kid with football coach yelling at him.

Where is that grass now? Cut, dried, stomped, rotted, regrown and back under the gaze of some nervous kid pushing away from the world. 

I don't have many specific memories of September, just a feeling about it. It's ominous, I don't know why. I haven't had to go back to school for fifteen years. I still feel it though, something about change, I guess. And I look down at the ground, and wonder where we'll be the next time you come around.