September Smiles Directly at You
You want to look away, but you can't
Mid-afternoon, you receive a text from September.
—I’ll be a little late. Don’t wait for me.
If September wasn’t such a dear, wasn’t one of your absolute favorites, you might be miffed at the casual presumption. Waiting? You’re not waiting for anyone or anything. You are out here, basking in the heart of a lazy, late summer afternoon. You’re so enamored with the languidness of the day, you forgot anyone was coming over. You’re thankful for this announcement of delay, for the extra time. You choose a book from the “In Progress” pile, open it up, and locate the paragraph where you left off…
Hours later, you wake up to the distant sound of a syncopated knock on the door. The unusual rhythm wakes you up swiftly, as does the cool evening which has dewed your uncombed hair.
“Oh,” you say out loud. “That must be September.”
—’You look tired,’ September says when you open the door.
“No, I’m just relaxed,” you reply, looking right into those milk chocolate colored eyes.
September is shorter, but even better looking than you remember. You wonder now why you always had a crush on August.
—’I’m glad.’ September says. ‘Fresh start for the endeavors ahead.’
You don’t verbally object, but without question, you are in no way ready to think about…endeavors. You’ve been busy eating cherries, watching the tides come and go, flying kites. You haven’t put on a pair of socks in months. And suddenly, there is talk of endeavors. You’re not remotely interested in activities that require gumption and waking up before you want to.
September smiles. A bright, bountiful grin releasing an expression of possibility focused directly at you. You want to avert your eyes, but you can’t. As you stare into that harvest of a face, you think of all the things you had intended to get done—this afternoon, the previous week, the last few months—and realize most of them are unfinished, or worse, not even started. You’re about to get irritated. Angry. At yourself.
September senses your frustration, puts a hand on your shoulder. Lets it rest there for a minute. You breathe out. A wave of nostalgia comes out of nowhere, channels through you. What is it about September that makes you feel like a child again?
In a few days you grow accustomed to the lowered arc of the sun, the inkier tone of the afternoons; the rain. You accept the prod of the alarm clock, the need to turn on lights in the kitchen in order to prepare coffee. Eventually, you get used to not knowing exactly what kind of a mood September will be in when you see each other in the morning. There are frantic days, lazy days; days when September is joking and bright-eyed, and others which feel heavier, saturated in recollections, almost veering into regret. The barometer rises and falls, but luckily, within tolerable ranges of mercury. Regardless of the mood each day, after coffee, September leaves the house, returning just before dusk, flush-faced, and with every pocket stuffed full.
For weeks you wonder what September is carrying in those pouches as well as where it’s all going until one day you open the pantry door and find the tidy, alphabetically arranged piles of various seeds, cones, herbs, flowers and fruit.
“Wow!” you gasp.
You stand there, looking closely at the loot on the shelves. You can’t believe all of this was gathered in such a short period of time. You’re still trying to take note of everything on display when you hear someone coming toward you. Turning around, you find September standing right behind you, looking nervously over your shoulder; eyes lasered on the pantry shelves.
“Where did you—?”
—’The apples are ready.’ September interrupts. ‘I’ll make us a pie.’
You’re not sure if this pie-making gesture is to thank you for hosting or to distract you from the array of sundries that now ornament your kitchen closet, but your love of apple pie prevents you from focusing on the question any longer.
“How can I—?”
—’Please. Just sit down. I’ll make the pie, and you can keep me company.’
You don’t know where September gets the energy for all this. While slicing the apples, September starts humming, then, on the second round, the words come to join the tune:
“How much berry does the huckleberry huck?
How much honey does the honeysuckle suck?
How much sweeter could the salmonberry be?
’A whole lot sweeter!’ says the greedy bumblebee.
I’ll make you a cobbler, I’ll bake you a pie
’Cause you’re the sweetest apple of my eye.”
“What’s that song?” I ask? I’ve never heard it before.
—’I don’t know what it’s called. My grandmother used to sing it when she was baking pies. She said if you sing when making a pie, they taste sweeter.’
We sat in silence as he placed the evenly sliced apples in the pie shell.
—’I miss her,’ September said while lacing the top of the pie with delicate ribbons of crust.
You never realized September was so sentimental.
As the afternoon darkens, you note to yourself how much less daylight there is than only a few weeks ago.
—’Don’t be glum about sun setting,’ September says, almost as if reading your mind. The pie is in the oven and you can already smell how delicious it will be.
—’The moon is coming up. You’ll want to see this one.’
Yes. The harvest moon. Again, you forgot to expect it, didn’t remember how stunning this annual moon can be, hovering large and deep gold above the horizon. Over the water, its reflection slowly stretches in shimmering ribbons. You think back to the afternoon, to the way the slices of pie crust were so carefully cut and placed gently over the apples.
For the first time you understand something about pure generosity; about the wondrous give and take of September.
Thank you for reading.
{| AC
I am on the verge of tears, but my heart is wide open, taking in all your beautiful words. Thank you, Angela! 💛