September 1

This September morning starts slowly. The overnight air is cooler, and a breeze blows through the windows, open at last. Summer is waning and it’s likely we’ll shut everything up and turn on the air conditioning again. But for now, we have fresh air.

September first. I decide to wear a dress for the first time since January. There’s been no reason. I spend most of my mornings in sweatpants and change my clothes, reluctantly, before taking a midday nap. A long time ago, I promised myself I wouldn’t be the kind of person who wears pajamas all day. I’m sticking to that.

Yesterday, we rented tandem kayaks and paddled around a lake: one parent and one child per kayak. It was breezy but not so bad that we couldn’t fight the waves, our paddles scooping the water as it sparkled in the sun. We had a picnic and watched people walk through the park. We ate ice cream cones in the parking lot.

Today, we step into an unfamiliar library and are greeted by a litany of rules, too many to count. I don’t intend to take anything home and instead help the kids choose a few books. The librarian rushes us along; someone else is waiting. My dress feels loose but heavier than I remember, sleeveless and an effortless heather gray. Its jersey is like a knit blanket. I am hot. I am smothered. I just want to go home.

We stop at the farm stand for corn and the last of the summer fruit. What we should buy is tomatoes—everywhere, tomatoes—but we have plenty at home. I break a twenty and try not to take it personally when the cashier barely looks at me. My dress ripples across my legs and I say thank you.

September tiptoes off the edge of summer, a line that is neither straight nor curved, a high wire where land meets sky. Nothing holds a particular shape anymore. We’re constantly recalibrating. I’m ready for something new, but it isn’t clear what. Everything is changing, nothing is changing. It’s a slow burn.

What I know is this: September means fall and fall means shorter days, cooler days. The golden hour loosens its arms and comes closer. Death becomes a color: orange or red, then brown. If I’m lucky, I’ll pay attention. I’ll grab whatever I can, whatever shape it’s in. Each day fluttering in the wind. At home, I take off my dress and promise to try again.