Late summer thistle

This isn’t the first summer in which grief has tried to wrap her arms around me. Sometimes she shows up just after the solstice. Other times she waits until the Fourth. She generally lets me be on family vacation, but no doubt has her claws out come time to buy school supplies. She visits in response to the shifting sun, the abridging days and the upcoming autumnal new year— kids each a grade higher, me a year closer to elder hood. Grief reminds me of the poignancy of life, digging up regrets and I-wish-I-would-haves that go dormant in other seasons. This is the anxious anticipation of returning my people to society, duty and academic formation. I feel an ancient sacrificial ache. 

This August I’m grieving a bit differently. I’m crying openly at the pool, while chauffeuring the kids and as I lie curled up on the couch on a beautiful day. I’m admitting to people who ask how it’s going that I’m sad. This summer I’m not shrugging grief off. I’m letting her have her way with me. I’m saving my fighting energy for something more productive. I’m succumbing to the sweetness and the requisite flip-side of being in love.