Ode to the End of Summer
On time alone, depression (regular and seasonal), and storm systems.
This summer I spent more time alone than I ever have before. My roommate was out of town a lot and I found myself missing my childhood home and my role of passive observer, just sitting on the couch and listening to the comings and goings of my siblings. Lately, when I visit home it’s a reprieve from having to think about myself all the time, but it’s never as busy as it used to be. My siblings can drive or they get rides; they work and they see friends.
This summer I went to work on work days and on some nights I saw a friend or two. I always went home to my dog in the evening. And it was incredibly dry, even for Phoenix. The sun was oppressive and unchanging. I sift through news articles for proof that this summer was more unbearable than usual. Or maybe it’s just me. My patience is growing thin. I realized this was the first summer that I couldn't just walk two doors down to swim in my grandpa’s pool.
I went home one Saturday night, on a whim, to watch the meteor shower with my mom and my sisters. Out past the lake we set up beach chairs in a desert clearing and heard a donkey braying at a distance that wasn’t far enough from us. Stars moved in the sky and we sat wide-eyed trying not to miss anything; there was a cool desert breeze. We quickly became philosophical and just as quickly broke up the moments with jokes. Time sped back up afterward: stopping for frozen yogurt on the way home and throwing a surprise party for Papa’s 70th birthday the following night.
The morning after the party, at Papa’s house, he and I looked through his gifts while he baked a batch of blueberry muffins. I got to try a muffin, which tasted so good that it brought tears to my eyes, and then it was already time for goodbyes to Papa and Mom and Dad.
My dog whined the whole drive home. He hates leaving my parent’s dog, I presume.
A few days later my little sister turned 17. I drove up to celebrate, spent the night, left in the morning, and Charlie whined the whole way back.
A storm system is coming in from a hurricane off the coast of Mexico, headed right toward Los Angeles. There won’t be any rain for us, I’m sure, but the cloud coverage brings some reprieve and hope that it could maybe, possibly rain. Better than endless clear skies.
At work, a customer called to ask about making an appointment to buy a suit for their rehearsal dinner in October. I said yes, of course, and I told them they had plenty of time. Who was going to tell me that the year is more than halfway over? Why am I never prepared for this dizziness? My paternal grandpa passed away at the start of summer. He did not have plenty of time left, a fact that he, and we, learned a few weeks before his death. Ever since he passed away, I’ve been anxiously seeing death in places I’d never allowed myself to reckon with before.
I try hard to notice the positive things (the green glass bottles hanging above my neighbor’s back porch, my dog’s face, conversations with kids) but some days all I can see is the man sweating and shrinking into himself at the freeway exit light, holding a tiny sign that reads “OUT OF OPTIONS” / “HUNGRY”.
On a motivated kick, I light a fall-scented candle, put on a record, and tidy up my room. That’s a trick to living at the end of summer: lighting a fall-scented candle, closing the blinds, turning the lights down, pretending it is what it isn’t.
Remember seasonal depression? This feeling you get every year at the same time? My friends and I keep reminding each other of this fact as if putting a name to it erases the problem.
We never got a real monsoon season this year in Phoenix. Every year of my life, we have had a monsoon season. The rain is healing for us, marking the end of the dog days of summer, giving reprieve from the cruel sun, and covering the air with the scent of creosote. We typically rely on monsoon season to mark the end of summer. This year, I’m left to make something of it myself.
Other signs of the end of summer: I noticed these leaves fighting their way out of the otherwise bare branches.
At the beginning of June, I stopped taking my antidepressants for the first time in 3 years. I just wanted a break, and I wondered if I’d be okay without it; I wasn’t okay, but the depression came on slowly and more insidiously than I expected.
Time keeps moving; I’ve been trying to finish writing this essay for a few weeks now. I’ve got my September haircut appointment booked and I’ll start taking my medicine again in a few weeks—the weather, however, will remain horrible until after Halloween. But I’m excited to start feeling excitement again.
Sunday, August 27th.
I had the day off and I had it all to myself. I slept in for the first time in months, did a yoga practice, worked on a demo, and picked up a new book. I haven’t been eating well or eating enough in general so I decided to make The Stoup. Fry’s was totally out of zucchini so I called my Papa for advice on a substitution since it is his/my Nana’s recipe. I made good use of the fancy vegetable chopper my mom got me, but realized I didn’t have the right pot, so I texted my friends who live down the street and drove over to borrow their big red pot. The soup turned out delicious and the sky is turning pink now. I can see a row of clouds behind the palm trees, maybe a storm coming in, or maybe not.
A playlist for the end of summer: