Some Other Time

It’s summer. Well, at least school is out—and by school we refer to those institutions which recognize that scholastics should end as early in May as possible. Cedar refuses to acknowledge the inevitability of the sun. This week the flowers cowed under yet another layer of suffocating snow; the trees look more equipped for the last stages of autumn, afraid to open their foliage and be the dumb one that didn’t get the memo. We, being all green-aware (and by green we mean money), didn’t turn the heat on yesterday night (and by didn’t we mean forgot). This led to all sorts of unpleasantness with the toilet seat this morning, which in turn led to fasting and prayer for the overdue thawing.

Cold or otherwise—IT. IS. SUMMER. On this we will not negotiate. We have compiled (or at least started) the overly ambitious lists that characterize the golden months: we have one for cleaning, for reading, for eating, for not eating (still working on that one), for sleeping, for avoiding. Strangely, we do not have one for writing—yet, here we sit, postponing all our vital projects to address you, Internets. That’s right—feel special. Or don’t—after all, isn’t that what summer’s about? A compiled list of all the lists to be saved for later? There must be something to do in order to feel like we have accomplished the lazy perfection of ignoring responsibility.

Oh, we imagine some of it will get done—we will tackle the laundry eventually, in its cyclic time—like taxes and death. Real tasks, like paper revisions and Spanish practice, belong to August, when we can justify them because, “School starts next week.” For now, we reassure ourselves of summer’s presence, combating the cold with the comfort of some other time.