It’s the last stubborn days of summer, the sun emptying itself into long afternoons while it still can. The early signs of fall are here too, in the snuffed out misty mornings, the first brave, reckless leaves twisting away from the trees, and the days shrinking faster into darkness in spite of themselves. It is September, and it is back to school, back to work and back to begin again. But to me, the timing seems off: how can we briskly return to business, when all around everything (days, leaves, fog) stretches and collapses like a yawn? A contrary rhythm or am I the one out of step, always trailing two seasons at once…?
“The vygies will be in bloom soon,” my mother tells me on the phone. And I can see her precisely there: standing in the garden path that leads up to our house. And I know we are both picturing the sharp, bright petals, a spectacle of pointy stars exploding in colour. I close my eyes and try to imagine the scent of jasmine. And suddenly the season falls into place: September will always be Spring.