I hate the last bit of summer. The days are already creeping towards shorter and the nights are already cold. And I look back and wonder where all the time has gone. It had seemed so heavy in my hands at the start and now it feels light as nothing. Only a few days left.
And it’s been a good summer. That’s what we’ll say, looking back. It’ll be one we’ll remember and photographs to prove it could be sunny here and all the doors to the house thrown wide and the windows, too. And in the house the fizz of flies that had lost their way and bees pressing against the glass. And butterflies panting breathless on the windowsill.
And we drank wine with ice sitting on the back step and read books stretched out on blankets that we threw down on the lawn. And the sun stung our skin pink and lightened your hair. And you said I should cover my head in case I burned. It was that summer.
And the girl next door wore dresses in light fabrics and shoes that she could dance in. And she was always going somewhere and young men in open top cars were always calling and a different man every week. And she laughed and you said that was you once. And you laughed then and I had not heard that in a while.
And children played on the green or swam in the shrunk and gentled river. And dogs swam there, too, And the smell of meat cooking hung on the late afternoon air and music was everywhere. And even, you said, it was too hot, and you wore fewer clothes but you never wore none. And I tried to picture how that used to be, in summers when we were young. Didn’t we sleep with nothing between us, skin pressed to skin? Didn’t we do that in those far off summers?
Days passed more slowly back then and we were still just getting to know – ourselves and each other. The years that we’d had were small enough that our infidelities were few. And all our words could be honey-words and our kisses were not bargaining chips in games we no longer play. And the sun shone then, too,
Now this summer’s almost done and today it rained and so we closed all the doors and some of the windows. And I know I am frowning and you ask me what’s wrong. I say it’s just that I have misplaced my glasses and that’s why my face is screwed tight. But I don’t think you believe what I say. You are frowning, too, when I look. And I think it must be because the summer is coming to an end and it’s been a good summer. And the girl next door reminds me of you, and reminds you of you, and the summer ending is more than just this summer. That’s why we’re frowning.
Patricia Ann McNair 
I hate the last bit of summer. The days are already creeping towards shorter and the nights are already cold. And I look back and wonder where all the time has gone. It had seemed so heavy in my hands at the start and now it feels light as nothing. Only a few days left.
And it’s been a good summer. That’s what we’ll say, looking back. It’ll be one we’ll remember and photographs to prove it could be sunny here and all the doors to the house thrown wide and the windows, too. And in the house the fizz of flies that had lost their way and bees pressing against the glass. And butterflies panting breathless on the windowsill.
And we drank wine with ice sitting on the back step and read books stretched out on blankets that we threw down on the lawn. And the sun stung our skin pink and lightened your hair. And you said I should cover my head in case I burned. It was that summer.
And the girl next door wore dresses in light fabrics and shoes that she could dance in. And she was always going somewhere and young men in open top cars were always calling and a different man every week. And she laughed and you said that was you once. And you laughed then and I had not heard that in a while.
And children played on the green or swam in the shrunk and gentled river. And dogs swam there, too, And the smell of meat cooking hung on the late afternoon air and music was everywhere. And even, you said, it was too hot, and you wore fewer clothes but you never wore none. And I tried to picture how that used to be, in summers when we were young. Didn’t we sleep with nothing between us, skin pressed to skin? Didn’t we do that in those far off summers?
Days passed more slowly back then and we were still just getting to know – ourselves and each other. The years that we’d had were small enough that our infidelities were few. And all our words could be honey-words and our kisses were not bargaining chips in games we no longer play. And the sun shone then, too,
Now this summer’s almost done and today it rained and so we closed all the doors and some of the windows. And I know I am frowning and you ask me what’s wrong. I say it’s just that I have misplaced my glasses and that’s why my face is screwed tight. But I don’t think you believe what I say. You are frowning, too, when I look. And I think it must be because the summer is coming to an end and it’s been a good summer. And the girl next door reminds me of you, and reminds you of you, and the summer ending is more than just this summer. That’s why we’re frowning.
So very wonderful, Lindsay. Thank you. As always.
Yes, it is. Especially that last paragraph, where the bittersweet really is….
Thanks P.
http://judithlindenau.wordpress.com/2013/08/18/august-16-2013-at-summers-end/