August 2020 is over, already. Finally. What a month of highs and lows. The weather was fantastic, full on summer, heat and rain, gardens and fields heavy with harvest here in “la belle province”. The leaves still only tinged with a shy blush of promise for brilliant autumn raiment to come. And now fall is in the morning air, a new freshness that belies the cruelness of coming winter. Yes, August is a fine month to mimic the story of our lives.
My darling husband of over 40 years, Don, became gravely ill this month. Not Covid. No, not to mention that pandemic in this post, anymore, this month. There’ll be time and opportunity enough to anticipate and muse about that in the coming months. No, Don’s had a normal, 60-something-year-old male health scare, common enough, treatable enough (when caught, as it was), and we have a battle to get to the glory of the autumns of our lives, before winter. Winter, we know, is coming, it will claim us all, yet we resist the inevitability, we hope for more. We rage against.
And so, August, be gone. September, give it your best. Be glorious, Fall, before the Winter of our lives and the challenges sure to come.