The Quicksand of Summer

I hate the summer.  Too many people have died then.  My father, June 8th; my mother, June 10th.  Max, my mother’s late-in-life love, who made her feel she was his queen -- he died early June too. I can’t remember if it was the last day of July or the day before, that my husband John spiraled out of the sky. It’s true it was a long time ago, but still, you’d think I’d never forget the date of something like that.

On July 18th, my stepson Anda had a breakdown that stole his bright spirit. He struggled with an evil disease for three scary years, and though we never could be sure, it was likely the same date his psyche broke that he'd had enough, and his breathing body was no more.

Given the hellscape we’re enduring --  prolonged and deepened by the maliciousness of those in whom some still perversely place their trust --  there was little hope that summer of 2020 would be much to speak of. Then our Eli, Anda’s beloved younger brother, descended into his own medical hell. Three procedures in one week, his masked wife, scared but brave, alone by his side. Covid fears lurking behind every mask, behind every door on every hospital floor. The thought of this gentle soul afraid and in pain was almost too much to bear. The quicksand of summer threatened to swallow not just me, but my precious family.

“They” say that to survive quicksand one should lie flat. Well I’m really good at that, so I outlived August to “see” Eli return home to the kids. I’m grateful and relieved, and want so badly to place my faith in the passage of time.


I know many find the onset of autumn depressing. Not me. I welcome the respite from the swelter, and I commiserate with the trees declaring their departure from the season’s green lushness. They lessen the blow to those who love summer with a ravishing display, a last hurrah before winter’s regenerative slumber.


I also always loved shopping for school supplies with my mother. The fresh clean notebooks that I tried to protect from the inevitable crumpled corners and stray marks from my pens. The array of new writing instruments and organizational folders.  There was always a new outfit or two, and I had to hold back from wearing my wool way too early. 

These poor kids this year. Are they coming or going? Who needs a new outfit to sit at the same damn kitchen table? A professor friend of mine, who’s teaching via Zoom, characterized his students as “depressed and terrified.”  So glad kemp, whose mansion remains closed to the public at the time of this writing, opened tattoo parlors and bowling alleys and hair and nail salons in spring. It fucking didn’t have to be this bad. 


Of course this autumn is different from those I once welcomed. There’s the pall of sickness everywhere, the unceasing assaults of the depraved individual who’s infected America with his virulent disease. We’re trapped within a wall he willed through sheer viciousness, and I fear that this is the year I’ll come to despise not just summer, but September as well.

Lights over Arthur’s Seat, seen from Leith. Edinburgh, Scotland