It feels as though summer may have sighed her final, warm sigh. I suppose the final days of summer are like the final days of your baby awakening in the night; you wish them away, begging for sleep, only to lie awake one night, longing for the sweet smell of that same baby curled in your lap in the still of the night. But she never calls. In the thick of it you feel like those nights will last forever, but then one day they are simply gone.
Last week was still impossibly humid and I found myself begging for fall, but spent the majority of the day yesterday, in a sweatshirt, with cold toes tucked beneath me as I worked. I knew fall was coming sure, but I hadn’t held a proper farewell to those hot summer nights.
I’m already desperately trying to recall the warm light that bathes the walls in our house each summer morning and the rainbow of fresh veggies at the market amidst a sea of gourds. However, unlike those sweet babies calling in the night, summer always exits with a promise of one more chance. So, before the light meals of summer give way to hearty soups and grainy breads of winter, one last light summer tartine.