Dear Summer:
As I sit on my deck at the cusp of fall, I wish you farewell. Now my goodbye may be a bit premature (every girl I’ve dated would say that’s to be expected), but as the erratic weather of September begins to steady towards a chill, I feel this is the appropriate time to formally part ways. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m pushing you to the curb too quickly, trust me when I say there are times I certainly won’t forget, but I also won’t hesitate to proclaim, and there is even less that I will remember.
The time we had at the New Jersey shore was grand, lying together on the beach, cool drink in hand. And let’s not forget that silly little evening we went camping for the first time, meandering lost through a field of fireflies. That night was so damn beautiful, and I always laugh when I think about the tent’s collapse. You always had a sense of humor. And of course the outstanding dinners, whimsical bike rides, Swinging Summer Thursdays and relaxing stoop evenings. I want to remember you for the best, but it’s best you’re left behind.
You made me more introverted; Sundays with Evan had reached a point where I couldn’t stop the adventure, and now I struggle to think it’s even out there. I want the former back. You made me slightly homesick; I’ve spent the last couple years running from “The Mitten,” yet now I find myself sobbing at every “Pure Michigan” commercial, and frankly, this is beginning to piss me off. I know I miss the damn place, but every time that somber piano sound, accompanied by the voice of Tim Allen, tied to vignette images of Mackinac Island come on, I break down. I’m sick of it, and I’m pretty sure my friends are too. Lastly, I want community; summers of past made its presence greater, while you just made it more distant. You had me questioning my locale, direction, and companions, and that’s simply not an easy position.
But hey!!! I don’t want to dwell on this any further; let’s say it was amicable, wasn’t meant to be, or just an affair! But I’m really starting to enjoy my future with the Fall, and you always did say you wanted the best for me. So as that humid breeze subsides and my Gin Rickeys turn into Manhattans, I’ll slip into an old cardigan and raise this glass to you. Sunday football and BBQ brisket is here . . . I’m so sorry summer; I must finally bid you adieu.
