The sun burns hot, the trees are still vibrant green, and the garden is still producing its bounty of harvest. By all accounts we appear to be in the throes of mid-summer. But July it is not, and we know it. The end caps at the stores are laden with school supplies, the sunset comes earlier each night, and birds fly in v-formations across the sky. The boys are shifting their places, shedding long-lost passions for little boy stuff in favor of the next new thing that will obsess their dreams.
As much as we try to pretend we still have the whole summer, full of its potential, out in front of us, we are clearing reaching the end. Our collection of this summer’s memories clearly out number the summer days we have left to create new ones.