There's something about September that feels like home. There's so much anticipation come the end of August. It's mine and my sister's (and best friend's) birthday month; there are signs of fall. M will be taking the air conditioners out of the windows pretty soon, and my baskets of yarn have taken up residence in our living room. My sweaters are getting screen time, and today I had a pumpkin spiced latte from Starbucks.
Every year, especially since I came to New England, I feel like September is the last big hurrah before burrowing into winter. There are more picnics, more tennis dates, more evening walks, each one done knowing it might be the last for a long while.
This year I'll turn twenty-six. Last year around this time I was compiling a list of all the things I wanted to do in my twenty-fifth year. I'm not compiling plans this year. This year I've noticed more how quickly time passes; how one day, M and I are saying, "I can't believe it's only Tuesday," and the next it's Sunday, and we're driving home from the Big E. This year I hope to do a little less listing and crossing off, a little less plugging away. I want to savor more, to really dip my hands deep into the muck of this life I have and swirl them around in there. To not come up just because I've grabbed something, but to enjoy the feel of it.
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