September

Harry Hogg
Aug 31, 2018 · 2 min read

Stood alone under the moon’s cool light, waves and whisky soothing my heavy heart, I’m reminded I hate September with a vengeance. The beach extends some distance, measured only by the days of August, a white necklace laid out on the ocean’s blue skin. I don’t have to crane my neck to see September or feel its chill on my cheeks. It is not the only reason I am going home, I don’t want to be late for equinox and, perhaps more importantly, to feel if such a place is left.

I’m not sorry to be leaving.

When I woke this morning, the sky was as blue as a Robin’s egg. I’ve heard it said: every closet has a ghost, and that love continually demands the word sorry be spoken. Maybe, but if for every mention of sorry a single blossom must fall, then I have that time, and days more, but no blossom ever falls in September.

Perhaps the time will come when I smile the way I once did — or last week. I no longer need to turn over in bed, or left on the street, believing a change in direction will bring us together. September, when it comes, is always a time of leaving, saying goodbye, not just to August, to loved ones.

The tide comes in and the tide goes out. It’s nice to be thirty in September or fourteen, always.

I do love you — believe that, and if I’ve ever been unfaithful, it is only with the keeper of my child, the sea. Sunday is the best day in the world to mend a broken heart. I’ll mend yours when that last September Sunday arrives to bring me back.

September, I begin to prepare logs for the fire. Time has always been a problem. It runs so fast and then runs out. Some thirty odd years ago I learned to shave without looking in a mirror, though time moves quickly I never found the need to remind myself daily. My difficulty with time was never made better by continually looking at myself. Funny though, the second time of loving I felt thirty years younger, another reason not to check myself in the mirror.

My greatest guilt in loving again is love’s absence in September, harbouring gentle ghosts of my imagination, unwilling to let go of them or set them into another’s perspective.

So, it’s time.

September.

A month when I wouldn’t give anyone even twenty minutes.

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