Late Summer Sunset

I'm borrowing a page out of Masked Mom's book tonight and posting something from the notebook. Not literally, this is from my book. I wrote this about two years ago for a friend of mine who was having trouble seeing with the right kind of eyes. 

August 16, 2010

Sunset in the late summer here is like no other place I've been. I lived some places that could conjure some pretty amazing sunsets. The soft, greenish-red of Vermont; the dazzling, glittery high-tech of Hong Kong. I've watched the sun set on four different continents, dozens of countries, countless cities. But here... here it's different. Here, it feels like home.

A clear, sunny day has its own color. The way a cloudless summer sky blue reflects the green of our urban spaces surrounded by mighty trees gives way to the violet mountains, the baby powder volcano, the liquid indigo of sound and lakes and sea. This cool palette is a constant reminder of elements, greater forces at work. It makes our efforts in sticks and bricks and glass seem like childish play.

The mountains recline while the trees whisper and the water giggles and they toss the sunlight around. Allowing us, for now, to sit nestled in their laps and play at technology, progress, before they choose to wipe us clean. I like the feeling of living in borrowed space. The wanderer in me feels at home in a city whose very nature feels transient. I haven't felt this welcome since I lived in pre-1997 Hong Kong.

One of my favorite times of day is when the sun decides to call it a day, pack up and go home for the night. To go put up its feet for a while in Asia while we cool off. It's not the gentle slipping from the sky, the polite and lingering egress I've seen in other places. It's like it suddenly realizes it's been at this party too long - suddenly glances at its watch and realizes "It's nine-o-clock! I should have left hours ago!" and vaults for the Olympics, turning once to flash a dazzling smile across the Sound and it's gone. You're left standing there with your cooling cup of coffee in the rapidly cooling air, feeling the full force and impact of dangling off the northwestern-most corner of the continental United States.

But there are those few minutes... the brief moments between the slight shifts in the light. Like when a momentary hush falls over the party and you sense it is time to go. That few minutes before the sun hops over the mountains that its sleepy light dims a bit and crackles, sending a shower of golden sparkles to settle over all those blues and greens like the iridescence of a peacock's feather. It's a beauty almost too much to take in.

If you look with the right kind of eyes, it's a cad's apology meant just for you. "Hey, sorry about all those days I was supposed to show and didn't. If I could hold you in this light just a little longer, I would. But I gotta run. You understand. Listen, I'll be back soon. Not sure when, but I promise, next time I'm through this way, maybe I'll stop by."

And just like that, before you can protest, give it one last kiss, it hops over the mountains. And before you get the chance to protest or be hurt or question its fidelity, it gives you that wink and special grin over its shoulder, bathing you in its glow. A special light just for you and it's gone.

Summer Called

I was just finishing up the dusting this afternoon and sitting down to write, when my friend Summer called and asked me to come out and play. This is not a metaphor. I do, in fact, have a friend. Her name is Summer. Her name is Summer even in the winter and in March which is who knows what around here. She's a lot like the Summer you might know - bright and fun and golden. She is. I promise, this is not a metaphor. She can always think of the best things to do and her D is the best of friends with my Hooligan and she laughs when I say careless, straight-faced things about children.

Summer called on the tail end of the dusting. Actually, that's a lie. She didn't call. She texted. I just hesitate to say such things because it makes me feel like half my age. Not in a good way. She texted and the Hooligan hollered over the vacuum: "Mooooom! Your phone beeped! I think you have a text!" He's a whippersnapper and much more comfortable with such language. My phone is dumb and flippant, so texting is an act of love. The tedious hammering out of Morse Code on a tiny screen. Beep beep - N. Beep beep beep - O. Delete.

Wait! Why would I say no to Summer?

"Sorry, I can't come and play with you in the sunshine on this perfect day because I am dusting. And then when I finish with the dusting, I plan to collect all that lint off that rag and stuff it in my navel so I can contemplate it and then write about it. I have certain standards to uphold, here. I can't just be out enjoying myself willy-nilly. There is twaddle to type. Get back to me when it is cold and gray and rainy and I am bored. Those are my power days."

 I did not text this. That would have taken forever. Probably my phone, which is quite slow, would not stand for such nonsense. It was much easier to text back: "On our way." It was easier, but not easy, you know. All those beeps and counting letters and such. There was a flurry of screaming and nudity and beach towels and swimsuits and "where is my purse? I just had it!" and sunglasses and hats and "does anybody have to pee?"  and we were off to find Summer.

Everyone needs Summer in their lives. To beckon you away from the things that are no fun. To send you messages unexpectedly that turn the afternoon upside down in the most delightful of ways. To remind you that there are moments to be seized and splashing to be done. To draw you out of flakiness and navel lint and dusting and stormy moods and just generally being yourself. To call to you and tell you to come out and  play.

I have a Summer and she is golden. I'm so glad Summer called.