In my mind, Labor Day weekend always marks the emotional end of summer.
The first imprecations of autumn have already begun creeping in. Though there will still be plenty of hot days, still be plenty of occasions for wearing shorts and sandals, there is an undeniable hint of chill in the morning air. Dusk falls faster and earlier. Clothes take longer to dry on the line.
Things are changing, friends.
I will place mountainous pots of yellow mums on the front porch at Brookwood Court.
I will search out t-shirts and blouses in colors like sage and cranberry and ochre.
I will open a brand new spiral notebook, take out a shiny new pen for new stories to write.
Soon I will also cut back the dried hostas and daylilies for the very last time.
Wind up the backyard clotheslines, perhaps forever.
Put the old back porch chairs out front on trash day.
The emotional end of summer this year is also a rather emotional end of my last full season in this house. I am mindful now of all the things I do for the last time. There is still a sense of unreality to it, this moving business. Even though this week I emptied all the drawers in my writing room desk, transferred the clothes from the winter closet to the new house instead of to their home in my bedroom here. There are bags and boxes scattered throughout the rooms here, separated for trash, for donation, for re-homing to Brookwood Court.
When people ask me if I’ve moved yet, I keep saying that “it’s a process.”
Like the changing of the seasons, little things are happening which herald the big change to come.
Emotional endings, all around.