I've got a case of that deep mood indigo that comes with the end of summer, but rather than fret, I have to admit that I revel in it. I love the buzz of an old fan on low; the slow, golden descent of the sun behind the pines of Sebago Lake; the call of the loons in the distance just as the day winds down; and the soft cocoon of a cotton quilt for comfort more than for warmth.
These are the days that slip through your fingers like lake water. The ones you wish could simmer on and on, made all the more sweet by their fleeting ways. These are the days when I feel most mortal. I sense endings in each slam of the screen door, and I lie awake long after the cottage has fallen into its own night rhythms, listening to the drip of the bathroom sink and the slow, steady breathing of someone I love on the other side of the beadboard wall.
This moment, no other, is all that matters. If there are endings, so be it, because that means that there are beginnings, too.