It’s that time of year again, when everything is poised to tip the other way. Crickets chirp and cicadas hum all day long, and the afternoons are dead still. Smells are more localized – a sharp bite of marigold as you pass, and the first hint of decay in the poplar leaves as they rattle and begin to fall. The options are dwindling for the wasps too, and they go stupid.
This morning I walked by a summer house on the lake and saw a young man carrying cases to the family station wagon. They still make station wagons, I suppose, but this one was probably the family relic, used mainly for summer and boarded up in the winter. The back hatch was open and facing the road, and the low sun shone inside. The guy was about college age, carrying a golf bag, zippered up for a flight, and towing a floppy suitcase behind through the morning dew on the grass. He wore a long sleeve button down shirt and long pants. I was prepared to wave and say hi, but he never looked up. It’s back to the other life for him, back to the real world.