I ran into a friend at Wendy's today, where my youngest son and I had gone for lunch. "Two weeks?" my friend said, and at first I didn't know what he meant. And then I got it. "Or are we not counting yet?" he said, and I thought, nope, I'm counting, but I'm maybe not talking about it out loud yet.
Yet it is just that: two weeks left. Today it was hot again, if not as hot as it's been all summer--and maybe it was, I just don't have the heart to keep track--it was damn hot anyway. And there's a fire at the south west edge of the valley. I'd heard on the news at noon that it was forty percent contained, but it has flared up again. There's ash on the hoods of our cars, and the air smells like burning.
I'd like to make the last two weeks last and last. It's shocking to me how many things will be, need to be, fit into them. I would like the last two weeks to be infinite, elastic, capacious.
But there are fires devouring the hills, and it won't stop until we're well into fall.
August, I'm taking the last of my summer trips starting tomorrow--my nephew's wedding. I hope when I get back there's a little taste of fall in the air. I hope it's cooler. I hope the fires abate. I hope there's still a little remnant of summer left. I hope all these hopes are possible, but simultaneously.