Though it remains sultry in this second-story apartment, it is September now and soon Autumn’s golden-soaked frosty mornings, spooky scary trees and flannel jackets shall be upon us. It is with great anticipation that I look forward to this– I run hot, you know, and I am simply not built for climates as warm as Pennsylvania, even. (My initial motivation for the Maine Mom thing.)
We are sitting here wearing just enough bed-clothes to be considered decent by society’s standards. Olive is spread across the cool tile table, letting not one of her three limbs touch the others– her fur coat does her no favors here. Though the romance of summer is fading for me, as it seasonally does, I had a fondness for it still– those three-in-the-bid nights at Sarah’s with the Brooklyn streetlights and little fan whirring all night, the immense cicada sound cloud in Evan’s forest, driving, sweating, all the windows down, getting a funny shorts sunburn, screaming along to the radio, emptying my buzzing brain, the endless spread of cornfields, the green-topped mountains in the distance, a sweltering sky.
And then there are those cats I saw along the way.
With love, sweat, kisses.