I always thought of August as a month that belonged to fall. Growing up, it was the month when summer slipped away and we fell back into the regimented schedules of school. I remember trading my jean shorts and tank tops for pants and jackets – partially because of the school dress code, and partially because I needed the coverage sitting in air conditioning all day. I would be eager to step back into the sun after the last period of the day and let the warm air ease the goosebumps that had accumulated on my skin. Even though the days were still hot, any notion of summer was masked by back-to-school shopping, football games, and homework.
Fall doesn’t make itself known until late September or early October. At the turn of the season, suddenly and always surprisingly, the air cools. Once hot, thick winds become light with licks of autumn and every year I find myself relieved. There’s something unanimous about anticipating the next season. In winter, we long for spring. Spring builds excitement for summer. Summer makes us itch for fall. And fall propels us into winter. The changing of the seasons is something to rely on. A scheduled change, appreciated because we know it’s coming.
Occasionally, the summer heat breaks and I am startled to step outside and need a jacket. It feels nearly impossible, as if I was never going to be cold again. The day before, I could have been walking the couple blocks home from the grocery store, toting overstuffed reusable bags on both shoulders, sweat beading on my forehead. I’d swear to myself that there is nothing worse and I would be so much happier if it were just ten degrees cooler. Then that cold front I was praying for arrives and I am still miserable, wishing it was just ten degrees warmer. On one of those rare cool days in a month like July, I’ll let my window air conditioning unit finally rest. I’ll dig out a thicker sweatshirt for when I start my morning, and I’ll make a cup of tea for when I sit on my porch in the evening. I’ll sit outside trying to catch a glimpse of the sunset between buildings, goosebumps tickling my arms and legs, and I’ll think fondly of fall. Having all but forgotten my previous discontent, I’ll be eager to take a hot shower before bed. Standing in the scalding water, thick bouts of steam will make my head light and my lungs heavy so that when I step out, I’ll rush to open the bathroom door and feel the cool air against my pink skin. The cold wouldn’t feel as good if it weren’t for the heat and I realize how badly I need this dichotomy.
So, on an oddly cool summer night, I sit on my porch with sirens ringing from the left and cicadas rattling from the right. The breeze breaks the blurry summer swelter, just as the bugs remind me that they too have a place in all this concrete. Like the little patches of grass between the sidewalk and the street, I remind myself that the world demands variability. Variability in our habitats, our routines, our perspectives. While sometimes it disrupts the stability – or the season – we’ve become so accustomed to, it’s refreshing. And like a hot shower in July, I never expect to need it.
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