"Growing up"

As a child, I would promise myself not to forget how I loved the fall. Summer in the south is like a dictator. It hangs heavy around the necks of the people. They toil through June and July in fear of August. They pray out loud; because “Lord have mercy it's hot.” By the end of July, denial becomes a tool of survival. You can hear it waiting in line at the grocery store or in the laundromat. Everybody begins to speak of rain. They tell each other it's coming, like a rapture of sorts, to reward the faithful for bearing the weight of their servitude. Hope is not just an idea or a feeling. We use it. We share it. We speak it, even to strangers. As a child, this is why I loved the fall. It fulfilled an unspoken promise of change. As the first cold wind begins to blow, I think of all the weathered faces whose labor, at least for a moment, seems worth it.