It’s autumn now in the Midwest. It’s been a strange fall. A sudden, prolonged and early cold snap means that instead of turning glorious colors, most leaves are just dropping off the trees, dead, a sort of odd olive green color. No warmish days and cool nights; instead, we’ve gone straight to biting winds and wet, rainy days.
Maybe it’s my fault. My son died at the peak of summer, mid-July. I’ve been holding on as long as I can to that season.
He loved summer—the long days with no school and time to play and hang and just do what he wanted, when he wanted. I’ve never been a fan of heat, but summer has always been a great time as a parent just because it means less rush and less pressure to get the kids up, to school, to activities, to do homework.
I’ve been hanging on to summer. To that time when my son filled the world with his presence. The change of seasons means time is pushing on without him, and I’m not ready for that. I don’t want to think of all the seasons to come without him.
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