Although, technically, you are not summer yet, I nonetheless address you, the rest of the summer, because I know you can hear me. It's June 1, and everyone knows that June and July are summer, regardless of the actual solstice.
So listen up, the rest of the summer: there are a lot of things that have to be fit into you, and you and I both know that project--the "fitting stuff into you" project--will go much better if I am not freaking out every other minute about how fast you are flying by, how short you seem to be, how little of you is left.
The rest of the summer, I think we should come to an agreement. Here are the terms:
- Let's not think very much about how May is already gone. There's no point to that. I did what I did in May, the rest of the summer, and that's that.
- Let's linger over these June days. They are so fresh, so early, so pointedly not "the rest"--much more "the beginning."
- In fact, the rest of the summer, let's just have you wait over there in the wings--why don't you hang out over by the end of July? That would be a good time for you to discreetly signal to me that you're about to make your entrance.
Yes, that's maybe the best idea I've had in several weeks: hello, the first of June! why don't you dawdle over here with me while I plant the heliotrope and contemplate a hydrangea and plant some beans and buy another hanging geranium? The first of June, you are excellent company. You're the kind of companion that makes a person feel like summer is just starting. The first of June, let's have a glass of lemonade and read a novel.
The rest of the summer, I am building a wall of lemonade and novels and writing and Idaho and lazy mornings and heliotrope. An impenetrable wall, one that means I can't see you.
Ignoring you deliberately,