![]() Unfortunately, there are no cures for the endless melancholy the end of September and the start of October brings, but I offer you my literary mode of relief and escape nonetheless.Īs the epitome of a somber summer afternoon, “Breasts and Eggs” by Meiko Kawakami hangs heavily onto the empty feeling of staring into endless summer sunsets. When summer’s scorching sun settles into the gloomy mornings of autumn, and the evening darkness comes earlier and earlier, the natural grief of another earthly rotation is difficult to miss. I can’t love summer, but I also can’t love the transition into winter, spring or autumn - each seasonal death is a funeral of sorts, and the reminder of life passing is almost universally mortifying. ![]() The loving warmth born in April settles into a casket by September. The Arb’s bloom never lasts long enough, and the Diag’s trees lose their color faster than I can enjoy it. A Michigan summer is the very definition of brevity, a brief lapse of light sandwiched between the nine-month heartbreak that is Michigan’s grip of winter. The official calendar length of summer is three months, ranging from June to September - but this length rarely holds true in feeling. It is undeniably obvious why summer has a reputation for blossoming love and brief romances: the ephemeral nature of its passions are boundless.ĭespite this, it is impossible for me to truly love summer. Warmth is restored from the ground up in every living being, and the beating heart of summer forces a fresh pulse within every sun-kissed soul. It is a season that slips into temperature extremes, turning increasingly novel each year - July and August heat are just almost unbearable at times - but more than that, summer is a season of universal renewal. ![]() ![]() A Michigan summer is difficult to hold in your hands. ![]()
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