We walked up the hill towards the house, and Jake suddenly turned to the left and ran off into the thicket. “Where the hell is he going?” Kyle exclaimed. Barley was still walking around on the trail in front of us, towards the faint sounds of bluegrass and laughter out above the clearing. The sun was drifting down behind the mountain, casting a warm orange glow on all of the bales of straw that were dotted along the edge of the hill. The glow filtered through Hannah’s blonde frizz. I watched the back of her head while she trod up in front of me.
Jake started braying continuously in a voice not quite like his usual. It wasn’t the same as his bark when he wants food, or the howl he makes when Mom leaves him behind, or even the sound he makes when she comes home and he runs circles around her feet. He almost sounded like he was in pain. I thought maybe he felt lost in the thicket and was crying for us to come get him. I laughed at his silly desperate howl. In a moment, two white tailed deer darted out from the woods, and leaped down the hill behind us.
“That’s the sound they make,” my mom told me later. “That hunting howl... That’s what Dad’s dogs always sounded like. They could run for days and days when they’re on the trail of something.”
Eventually, Jake made his way up out of the other side of the woods, and sat at my feet while I spit watermelon seeds over his head. “Someone ought to wrap up that peach pie,” my grandmother said as she stacked up the dishes on the picnic table.
I jerked my head around. “IT’S PEACH?!” I exclaimed. I went ahead and cut myself a slice. Apple pie I like alright, but I’m not usually gonna make room in my stomach for it. Peach is another story. Peach pie is a rarity.
Peach pie and watermelon and a sun setting over the mountain. Goodbye sweet summer. A week ago I was begging for time to stop. I wanted to swim indefinitely through the humid air. I have spent many days and nights sauntering through the streets of my neighborhood, listening to the mocking buzz of cicadas. That’s the sound of summer saying goodbye.
In the course of the past week, I learned a little lesson. Summer wore out her welcome, and patted me on the back with reassurance of why she had to be on her way.
Between her brutal assault on the Gulf Coastline, and the sad entanglements of my own trivial life, the message was made clear to me. Suddenly I’m tired.
I’m ready for brisk air to make me short of breath, just like the strong waves at the beach have done. A shortness of breath and a flash of excitement and fear, like the way I feel when I see a guy I want to touch. Sometimes the waves knocked me over. Sometimes the air will sting my face.
I’m ready to endure the adventure of my arctic apartment. This year I won’t be facing it alone. Abby and I can joke about the ludicrousness of the situation, and bundle up to enjoy the heat and the beer elsewhere.
I would like to look out my window and see that the world will be shutting down for the day, to descend into the Maryland pandemonium that comes along with an inch of snow.
A few months from now, I’ll probably have another new perspective on things. The last of the cold days will slowly pass behind me and wildflowers will populate the hillside. New leaves on the trees will muffle the bluegrass while I play with the dogs down the hill. I’ll brace myself to be knocked down and battered by the ocean again.