Sixteen Hours

There’s a certain stillness on late October evenings like this one that’s so complete even the brittle, dry  leaves don’t move. I know what it means. Summer is definitely over.

I think back to the blazing summer. The Fourth of July. The sun rose at six that morning and didn’t set until ten. Sixteen hours of light. We gathered at the pond and lit floating lanterns for my mother, born on the Fourth, whose birthday fell on the nation’s birthday. A gentle breeze pushed them toward the opposite shore. We watched them go in silence. 

That was four months ago. Now the cottonwoods stand bare and the river runs low and the sky holds just enough pink that I can still feel what those long summer days were like. Snow will soon cover all this rust and brown.

And Christmas lights will appear, cheerful against the long nights ahead.