I concede. You win.

Not like I could put up much of a fight at this point, anyway. The fireflies have returned already, flashing like fairy lights in the gathering darkness. The days have grown thick and heavy with humidity. They swell into afternoon thunderstorms, and afterward the air feels cool and tired, each day a fever that spikes and breaks.

We’ve spent an entire season indoors. Spring was all but lost to us as we shut ourselves away to protect one another. We missed the quickening of the earth, the shy warmth of the sun—and now we begin to stir just in time for your arrival.

Usually I fuss and protest even the faintest hint of you. For years, I’ve stubbornly ignored the unpleasant fact that you are necessary. As necessary as the renewal of spring or the busy preparations of autumn—even the harsh cold of winter coaxes us inside to rest for a spell. Now, after this season of suspension, even I have to admit that the struggle and toil and endurance you demand lead to growth. We couldn’t reach the harvest without the slow, painful transformation that makes all things fruitful.

In our garden, string beans and cucumbers make their intrepid climb up bamboo trellises. The tomatoes are already flowering from their cages. Hydrangea bushes burst with color, pink and blue and violet, and the marigolds reflect the sun in brilliant orange and gold. I find myself unexpectedly grateful, mindful of all that went into such beauty.

I wish I could keep ignoring you, summer, I really do. I wish I could lounge on a fainting couch for the next three months, fanning myself with a palm frond and remaining utterly still to avoid any unpleasantness. But that’s not your purpose. It’s time I allowed myself to grow.

(Although, like, seriously? Is it really necessary to bring THAT MANY mosquitoes with you? Just seems excessive, is all.)

Sincerely,
Carrie