Summer is gone. At least for now, it’s dead, swallowed up by fall. The world around me is still green, it’s always green around Seattle, but the gray skies and chilled air are constant reminders of what was and won’t be again. I usually spend my summers hanging off rock walls somewhere, trying to make myself stronger so I can climb harder so I can get stronger so that I can… you get the picture. But an injury left me grounded this year. So I bought a motorcycle and put a few thousand miles under my tires, most of them spent slightly above the speed limit. And then I went to San Francisco with the youth group from my church and found out that high schoolers today are better people then I was when I was in high school.
But I don’t really want to write any of that. The preceding paragraph came out like a list, a dull report on what I did this summer, when what I really wanted to write was an emotion. I want to write the frustration of having a way of life yanked out from under my feet by nothing more than a single injured finger. I want to let you feel the thrill of leaning into a corner at forty miles an hour, listening to the dull rasp of your boot heel dragging along the pavement, and then feel the absolute rush of accelerating out of the corner, feeling the bike pull you upright as it throws another twenty miles an hour on your speedometer. I want you to feel the amazing humility of watching high schoolers show love to the homeless of a strange city in spite of their fear, show love when you would have run at their age. I want you to carry that feeling with you for weeks, unable to shake it, unable to fully understand it. I want the faith of youth to rock your world like it rocked mine, to rock you awake again, alive again. In short, I want you to feel the soul of summer, hear its heart beat one last time before we let it go.
I want all that, and I won’t get any of it. Maybe if I were a musician. They seem to be able to wring emotion from the air. The good ones can paint pictures without using words, and I guess that’s my problem. All I have is words. So, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll give you my words and hope for the best.
This is my fair well song to summer; this is my dirge for its death.
But I don’t really want to write any of that. The preceding paragraph came out like a list, a dull report on what I did this summer, when what I really wanted to write was an emotion. I want to write the frustration of having a way of life yanked out from under my feet by nothing more than a single injured finger. I want to let you feel the thrill of leaning into a corner at forty miles an hour, listening to the dull rasp of your boot heel dragging along the pavement, and then feel the absolute rush of accelerating out of the corner, feeling the bike pull you upright as it throws another twenty miles an hour on your speedometer. I want you to feel the amazing humility of watching high schoolers show love to the homeless of a strange city in spite of their fear, show love when you would have run at their age. I want you to carry that feeling with you for weeks, unable to shake it, unable to fully understand it. I want the faith of youth to rock your world like it rocked mine, to rock you awake again, alive again. In short, I want you to feel the soul of summer, hear its heart beat one last time before we let it go.
I want all that, and I won’t get any of it. Maybe if I were a musician. They seem to be able to wring emotion from the air. The good ones can paint pictures without using words, and I guess that’s my problem. All I have is words. So, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll give you my words and hope for the best.
This is my fair well song to summer; this is my dirge for its death.
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