When August rolled, I waited for the heat, but it never came. I pressed my cheek against the sky and felt the cool commerce of change.
“In the summer we’ll swim in the ocean the way we used to.”
“But it is summer, silly,” a ghost of a moon said.
I nosed along the shore looking for pieces to our past. “Not the summer I remember.”
“Stop living in yesterday.”
“I’m not afraid of the moment, I’m afraid of the sky.”
That sky rumbled with no good reason. “He hears you.”
“What a beautiful artist you are in your naked hope and lugubrious naiveté. You are Blowing Away because you are waiting for the world to change … for August to roll.”
I grew tired of talking and hummed a melody from yesterday.
“You’re still looking for recognition and validation,” the moon went on. “Apparently you haven’t learned the lesson August means to teach you.”
“Please, Moon, I am very tired.”
“Lost sleep from a lost you.”
“Your riddles are burdensome.”
The moon laughed and it was like the dawn yawned inside the approaching waves. “August will roll when you let it roll.”
I stopped and looked out to sea.
How I miss these simple lines, the utter ease of letting nouns, verbs, and adjectives billow the sail of one’s soul. How I miss August, too. I want the sea to carry me to yesterday.
“Okay, I give up. How do I let August roll?”
“August rolls when you roll.”
“Oh, you are clever, Moon.”
“But must you leave so soon? I can barely see you anymore.”
“I leave once the lesson is learned.”
“Wait! I’m not sure I understand it all!”
“Sorry, I must go now.”
“Wait, I think I get it! Only we can recognize ourselves. Only we can validate ourselves. Only we can say no or yes to ourselves. We are always the ones that rolled, never August.”
“Just as you are the one that always rode the horizon, never me,” the moon said faintly.
“And if we all roll together, then we won’t blow away anymore. Moon? Are you still there?”
And summer came.
Yours in literature,