Wait. I'm not ready. I can still taste summer.
It's fainter now, in low relief, but the memories linger: the family, the friends, the beach. A second cup of morning tea, a puzzle half complete. Are the swimsuits dry?
Now, of course, there's fleece, and heavy quilts atop the beds. Darkness falls, like a hammer, before the clock strikes six.
Hugs last longer. Hoods pull tight. Leaves fall.
So while the world considers turkeys, I remember lobsters. That one July night, when my family, and our friends, sat around a long, wooden table papered with the day's news. The sweet summer corn, the golden melted butter, the soft baked potatoes, the thick sour cream. There were lobster crackers. Lemon wedges. Piles and piles of napkins. We licked briny fingers and tossed spent claws in a giant, central bowl. Someone poured wine.
So, yes, cranberry sauce is lovely. And turkey is just fine. Let the wind howl and the calendar turn. In my heart, though, it's still July. And I'm not quite ready to move on.
