August

There is something mournful about August. First – there are the crickets. That endless whirring and chirping at night; the cacophonous dirge signifying the end of summer. August is death disguised as sultriness. August is night after night with the people you want to be your friends forever. They pick you up at the mall where you’re working. In July, the car was full. Friends on friends’ laps and too many friends by far to be in that one car. By August, there are three friends, then two. One by one they leave you, embarking on their new adventures. By the end of August it’s you in your room with your bed-in-a-bag and your purple steamer trunk and your hot pot that you’re probably not supposed to have, and you know no one.

One response to “August

  1. You’ve done it again. That last sentence is both funny and sad the way genuine things are. Love it.

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