September 14

The other day, my father-in-law dropped off an old hammock that now sits in the middle of our backyard where I am lying and swinging lightly. The weather is breezy and sunny, the air crisp and alive. Fall is on its way, if it isn’t already here. It’s too early to tell. Everything is still green, but if you look closely there’s a bit of red and yellow on the fringe, working its way from the outside in.

I lie in the hammock with no shoes on. It feels perfect.

One of the hummingbirds that’s been flitting around the yard all summer is now flitting through the mountain ash. This year, its berries are only near the very top—tiny, orange clumps that contrast the sea of green around me. But the hummingbird isn’t here for the berries. It’s here to bury its face in trumpeting flowers or sip from the feeder we bought a few months ago. I see it peek out then dart back into the leaves.

Our neighbor told me that you have to put your hummingbird feeder away once fall comes. If you don’t, the birds might stick around too long and miss the window to head south. We haven’t taken ours down yet but will soon, a little nudge to our birds that it’s time to go.

They know, but we know too.

If I had it my way, I’d hang on a little longer. I’d hang on to summer and its laziness, no schedule to be found. I’d hang on to my kids, keep them under my wing. I’d stuff them in my pocket, and we’d be just fine. I’d stop time so I could lie in this hammock and stare at the birds, bouncing on branches, bending in the wind. There’d be nothing, nothing but here and now.

But seasons are changing. Time hums forward. I don’t want to go back to the way things were. Before. Before all this and this and this. I don’t want before, but what after means isn’t clear quite yet. Everything is here and now, the present, this moment, this breath. This I know. I feel it in my blood and my bones. And I’ll linger, like my hummingbird, as long as I like.