On my second read through the Prodigal Summer, deep in the middle of winter, I began to think that I skipped a chapter or two, particularly as the end came on so quickly. I was so certain that I remembered more to the story that I paged through the entire book, seeking the missed parts.
But that’s all there was.
It was over.
Just like that.
I feel the same way now.
How is summer coming to a close?
I look back at the weeks gone by and still can’t fathom that I have lived a full summer, but here it is: the middle of August (past the middle of August)… leaves turning red, school starting in a week.
Someone has stolen summer! Maybe I can blame it on the schools; or on the tenacious cough my son brought home from camp; or on climate change?
I bet it’s the same with our own endings.
Takes us by surprise.
Comes too soon.
(Even when we see it coming.)