The lazy heat of summer lingers here, during the day, though the calendar declares it to be mid-September and certainly the beginning of fall. Most nights are cooler now. And the gentle breezes, when they blow, send newly brittle yellow leaves skipping and skittering across the sun-warm stones of our back patio with a delightful, raspy sound. The smell of them, of autumn leaves, is magic; I would fill my whole house with it if I could.
Summertime is when I moved here, so as long as it is summer, my move is still new. But in the fall, this can be where I live; where I work and play and cook and read. Where I put pictures up on the wall. Where I think about making new friends. This can be where I remember my babies freely, without old ties, old guilt; without worrying about what anybody thinks. I can assimilate them more fully into my everyday life. I can relax. I can love who I am; all of who I am. I can explore what it means to belong.
Summer's end means the grueling anniversaries of my children's deaths have passed by, too. The tickers on my sidebar keep counting the days, but right now the numbers don't floor me like they did. It's been a year, it's been three years. The months will go by, the seasons will continue to change, the years will keep piling up, and my kids will still be just as gone. I know there will be times when I feel myself suddenly in the grip of it again: the helpless hopelessness, the grief. But for now there is some slight reprieve. I just miss them. I will always miss them. They will always be a part of me.
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