Summer is the proper season for meeting a love and spending a love. Even when nights are too short and dawn comes too soon and skin is too flushed, it is still the best season to spend one’s love.

This summer there was no love, and no summer either.

September comes, usually, like relief. After love is spent, September is the lounging, the nuzzling, the gentle caress, the lover catching his breath to express his tender endearments. And usually, I love September.

But this summer there was no love, no summer either, and there are no tender endearments to express now. True, September came. September came just the same. It’s warm finally, and sunny, and September is just right. But it’s September in the recently raided Whosville. And unlike those faithful Whos, I don’t very much feel like standing around the invisible Christmas tree and joining my fellow Whos in a round of cheer. Walking Murphy, I kick my way through the crunching leaves. It sounds like autumn too soon.

Perhaps, now that I’ve spent my summer of discontent, better things will be in store.

SS