Rot and Renewal

I can feel the soothing cool of your presence on my cheeks each morning, and I know I can relax. Breathe easier and enjoy the day, the whole day outside without being burned or dangerously overheated.

My mind perks like a kitten before a thunderstorm, and inspiration visits more often. I'm friendlier, less prone to grumpy fits because I can't endure the pleasure of summer, lounging on a boat at the lake for hours or weeding and harvesting summer vegetables.

But, I still can't forgive you for Charlie, Aunt Jane, and Grandpa. Years apart and in reverse order, youngest to eldest, you took them. I logically know it wasn't you, and it's not really all that terrible to have a memorial month, I suppose. It makes it easier to cram it all together, and cleanse myself of my burdens and regrets, my losses and hopes... before the new year.

The scents you bring of rot and decomposition, the ozone and minerals from the chilling soil, all heralding the big rest, the promise of renewal and the beauteous life cycle. The physical and the psyche churning and feeding one another.

And then I remember the piles of leaves and an impetuous giggle as he and his dog, Georgie, ran in counterclockwise circles, looking for the best spot to flop; wriggling Scottish eyebrows of jolliness when building a bonfire; coffee and baked goods on the front porch swing, the only time of year she cooked anything other than microwaved dinners.

So, I guess that's why you've always been a favorite. All the grand and brilliant memories. The physical release from anxiety. The purge of emotions that we stoics hold behind calm eyes.