LUCES

August departed just as it arrived: stunningly swift and unseasonably cool, yet also oddly humid. A tad overcast with rain looming for the next day, it was calm and unsuspecting, the morning light a bit darker than usual and dusk falling a good 40 minutes earlier than it did the month before.

The mile marker directly between the high peak of summer and the gentle downhill of early fall, August is my favorite time of year. As the month I was born, it probably should be by default, but I adore it for far more than the annual party on its second day. It’s the month where the weather is perfectly hot by noon, yet the morning and evening somehow fresh and cool. It’s the month where all the gilded spoils of the earth suddenly spill forth, dripping in abundance as they adorn the fields, yards, mountains, and valleys with their rich and splendid colors. Even the roadsides sway with drooping, lazing goldenrod and tall, vibrant ironweed, suddenly transforming the noisiest, dustiest curbs into something idyllic and serene.

August is whimsy and magic, yet somehow, over all the years, I’ve neglected to acknowledge my love for it. I’ve written odes praising fall and poured out lamentations of winter, then rejoiced the lively scenery of spring and early summer. But somehow, August has barely earned a mention, and I’m ashamed of it. To ignore the one you love—how terribly unfair!

Perhaps I simply enjoy August so much that I find myself too busy absorbing every moment in order to stop, reflect, and write. After all, summer’s final escapade is a fleeting treasure. Intense sun, yet cool wind. Ripe produce, yet browning leaves. Fireflies flickering, yet not as fervently. Children at home, yet school approaching. Summer’s still here, sure, dragging her bare toes through the backyard grass as the cool breeze tugs at her cotton sundress. But she’s tired. Fatigued. Ready to rest her head so the earth can start its slumber. It’s a time like no other.

Yes, August in these parts is distinct, and perhaps that’s also why I’ve never dared touch it. No words that I could ever produce would properly capture its rarity—how, seemingly overnight, the mountains transform from buzzing, vibrant, and green to muted, olive, and croaking. August is a sorceress enchanting the earth, indescribable in her magnificence as she spellbinds nature and lulls it to tranquility, and since I could never do her brilliance justice, I’ve never attempted depicting her. But I think that’s actually what she prefers. August is overlooked, her merits mostly dismissed due to a few dogged flaws, and that’s just how she likes it. She’d rather have a small handful of true admirers than the hollow adoration of the whole world, for if everyone cherished her, then she wouldn’t be a treasure.

August is extraordinary. Precious. And this year, as I watched her cycle through her annual phases, grateful as ever to be her child, for some reason, I grew content. I said the other day that someone would have to pry summer from my cold, dead hands, and usually, that’s true. Usually, I clutch onto Summer with a white-knuckle grip, clinging to her ankles as she drags me across the leaf-strewn lawn to the outside of her dwelling, deep in the heart of the yellowing woods. But this year, that’s not the case. This year, something funny happened. After the last pink rays of dusk faded to gray on August’s final day, I hugged the boisterous and vivacious Summer farewell, for once satisfied to simply meet next year. Then, I turned in for the night, exhausted from the excitement of the most glorious month, and when I woke, quietly waiting on my porch was her calm and stoic brother Autumn. With a warm smile and a soft hello, he greeted me, and instead of coldly shutting him out, I smiled back and invited him in.