When the weather is unruly during a month like June, it is unfortunate but it is not insurmountable. If June is dark or cold or wet, it will put us all on edge as we wait for the summer that we know, or could, be arriving during that month, but it will not send us over that edge if it does not arrive. We can tolerate the misery that is a dour June, because we know that June cannot hold into July, and that July, once in bloom, will only pleasantly give way to August. This is what brings us to September, and this is what allows us to hold out hope for a fulfilling summer even when June underwhelms. Summer, even if arriving late, will still, always, inevitably arrive. This is the promise.
But when September is dark and cold and wet, what does this leave us with? Are we to hold out hope as we would in June that the month to follow will be somehow better? If June 27th features rain and wind, no bother, for it will be warmer and drier soon. But if the same is true of September 27th, with wetness that chills to and through our core, is the outlook as bright? When a September features nothing that a September should, and everything that a proper November would, does that leave us time yet for redemption before the whole thing falls apart and we slip on sidewalks and careen off roads and loudly curse the snowy skies? When I look to July in June, I see everything good and pleasing and warm. I see as perfect of a dream as anyone has ever dreamt. But when I stand today and look past a downright inept September and into October, I cannot see anything clearly and the lack of clarity is a most upsetting burden.
Our summer, by way of this September, was cut short. We were cheated. In a way, I cheated you too. I promised that September would be like August, just with fewer tourists. I longed for the 80 degree days of September, which in my memory, feel nothing like the 80 degree days of August. They’re sweeter, purer, less humid, more appreciated. I’m struggling to describe those days to you, because in order to remember what they feel like, I must rewind to 2010, back when September was truly an extension of summer and I was taller, thinner, and decidedly more handsome. I hope Algore’s happy about this. I also hope it’s raining wherever he and his green, unicorn tear fueled private jet may be. I also hope he misses Tipper. I hope he realizes Rolling Stone will never, ever put him on their cover again, and I hope he knows that I thank God every day for those hanging chads.
You say I’m being premature in my summation of September? You say there’s still this full day left? I say to you that it is 47 degrees, and the wind is howling at 872 miles per hour, and this day offers me no salvation. This is not a day to remember, it is a day to get through, to push past, to move from an ill fated September that deceived me and into an October that offers no pretense. October knows who he is. October pretends to be nothing but October. It will open cool, and it will tempt us with an Indian Summer, and it will end with darkness by 5:30. It will turn our leaves the colors of the rainbow, and we will appreciate it, but it will end with us being suffocated in darkness, surrounded by dead leaves. Each crunch will be delightful, sure, but if I could weave a spell and turn those leaves green and attach them back to their branches, I would. You would thank me.
Unless you like winter, in which case, you should move to Manitoba. It’s winter there pretty much all the time, so perhaps you would like that better. Me? I like summer. And I like fall, but I like fall only after a summery September. Which brings me to today. I will fight to love October, knowing that my true love has already died. I am as a widower, forever in love with my first spouse, but working towards loving my current one because I need companionship. I will enjoy October, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I will hold it in contempt. October, September set the bar for you quite low, now don’t disappoint us.