It has been raining off and on for days. In the house, the grey light shifts, the fire clicks. The dog sighs and goes back to sleep.
It is hard to believe it is only mid-September with all this cold and rain. The summer walked off and dropped down a steep incline. I did not swim enough, eat enough cherries, pick enough flowers, watch enough sunsets, take enough bike rides down the dusty paths, is what I think, watching the rain. Only I did all of those things, and often. I swam most afternoons. I kept fresh cherries stocked in a paper bag on the top shelf of the fridge. I had handfuls of Sweet Peas, fragrant and bright, in a mason jar on the windowsill every day from late June to early September. I saw the sun fall into the sea so often, I grew accustomed to it and forgot, sometimes, to honor that gorgeous split second when it edges the horizon before dropping. I rode my bike to work at the bakery four days a week, along cool paths between old cedars, then home again.
But I want more.
It makes me think of that famous Nora Ephron essay where she dumps an entire bottle of lemon-scented bath oil into the bathwater because she loves being alive so much and one—as instructed— capful doesn’t feel like nearly enough.