In the mornings now, the mist settles thickly on the ground and in the reaching branches of the cedar trees on the hillsides.
I watch as the sun begins to creep through and break it apart, pausing in the frenzied midst of making lunches and sorting backpacks and uncrumpling papers. A quiet moment by the kitchen sink to savor the coffee, to contemplate the vapors.
Both of my daughters were born in the heat of summer. My youngest in June on the solstice, that longest day, when the true swelter of the season is as yet just a promise and not a weary burden; and my oldest in August, on the tail end of the season to be sure, but still before that shift that always comes, when you can suddenly start to smell as well as feel that the earth has begun to turn it’s face from the sun.
And now, the summer is over. My babes have grown into little girls who tie their own shoes and shoulder their own backpacks and walk with unbound potential through their own lives. I watch them covertly; I listen to their conversations peppered through with people I don’t know, and places I’ve never been. Sometimes it seems that a mist is falling over more than just the trees, but I take comfort in the fact that this is the way it should be. I am a triangle of light in the fog and they are explorers in a brave new world.
The season changes, and I look forward to what is coming next.