October
2, 2017
Greetings from
Summersmith,
My first few
steps outside, inches from my door, took me miles back in time to another
existence. Other mornings before the sun
came up, when the heat from the previous day still ebbed from the brick. Other mornings when it was summer, when the
temperature was twice what is offered this morning.
But it is not
summer. It is a morning in October. The
air is grudging, stingy with its warmth.
It creeps around my bare legs reminding me of what I gave up in
July. It accuses me, warns me again that
this is not as cold as it’s going to get.
There is a
dull orange glow in the east. The trees
are mute, leaves quiet in the moment, black silhouettes, stage props against a
false dawn.
I’m running. I’m running away from home. I’m a petulant child of divorced seasons,
forced to live with Autumn. I stamp my
feet on the cold concrete and spit hurtful words… ‘If you were Summer…’
I
run past empty fields, only the stubble of wheat or beans or whatever was
promised last spring. Promises already
harvested, the rows filled with tiny shadows, placeholders for the snow that
will hold the world in place until the next promise is planted.
The
sun heaves itself up over the rim of the world, pulls itself into the chilly
air with the best intentions. It has
already taken on the fall color in the morning mist; a pumpkin in the east.
The
light reveals the color in the leaves of the trees I run past, proud Maples
just back from the salon, with their bright orange and gold highlights. Other trees are bare, anonymous in their
nudity, their identity in heaps around them.
The pine trees are indifferent to all the drama.
I
run by fields of corn cadavers, crowds of zombie stalks waiting to claw me into
their rotting rows. Abandoned, drained
of their color, trying to imitate the Maple trees and failing.
It
is not summer. I know, just a few months
ago, I put my hands up to halt the warmth.
I warned myself, had the conversation, gave myself a good talking to,
and I made the wrong choices and I have no one to blame. I let it go without a fight.
I
run between small puffs of my breath forming my own weather system around my
head. Tiny clouds condensing into
miniature rainstorms on my face. Above
me the sky has painted itself a pale blue, tattooed with arrows of geese,
making their own comment on the change of season.
The
road leads me past a posse of deer on the edge of a stand of trees. They watch me go by with the same look of disinterested
curiosity they always have, like divas glancing around to see if there is something
better to watch. In the gravel shoulder
is an oval of water, a perfect puddle, a perfect portrait of the sky on its
face.
There
is a thick layer of fog across the fields, roping across the road and coating
the other side in grey batting. It’s as
if God is packing up the world, putting it away for the season.
The
sun pushes up over the trees and the fog and lights up the air around me. I can feel the warmth on my body, through two
layers of shirts that summer would never have allowed on my back. I can feel my legs, warmed by the miles and
now the sun, move with a new energy.
It
is quiet on the road but I change the silence, breath commas punctuating my
steps, as I push my way into October. I
am alone but I can sense the company I always keep. I don’t have the book in front of me but I have
the words. ‘…I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.’
There
is no music playing but I have the song ‘Running on Faith’ with me. There are no friends gathered around but I
smile at their company. I don’t have my
favorite mug filled with coffee, but I know the rich flavor. It is not June but I know the smell, the
texture of the warmth, the angle of the sun, the sound of the cicadas.
I
run through the morning, let the sun do what it does, let the air do what it
does, let the season pass as it does.
And I do what I do. I am
Summersmith. I make summer wherever I
go.
Hope
this finds you warmer,
David
Copyright
© 2017 David Smith
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