On a second read through Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer (consumed from the depths of a Vermont winter), I begin to think that I skipped a chapter or two, particularly as the end comes on so quickly.
I am so certain that I remember more to the story that I page through the entire book, seeking missed parts.
But that’s all there is.
It’s over.
Just like that.
I feel the same way now.
About summer.
I look back at the weeks gone by and still can’t fathom that I have spent an entire season, but here it is: the middle of August (past the middle of August)… with leaves turning red and 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.)
Two Owls Calling 