Green

Summer is not my season. It's too hot. But at least it's green. It's almost too green, am I right? It's dark and bright green, salt and pepper green, under a rock dark green and all the greens shifting as if they're not sure of what they want to be. I long for winter. While I admire the thickened branches and luminous shade outside the sunroom, how when I drive by Aubuchon hardware I want to run in and buy a kiddie pool, how it makes me feel caterpillar-like still, I long for a deep intake of chilled air

I see what I want in hindsight, always wanting what I cannot have. This is true in all facets of my life. But let me at least enjoy the green of summer, I think--the abundance of it; leaves crowding in on one another, sun shining through, the air sultry with heat (well, maybe not that part) and the odd desire to be wet. I recently read that caterpillars completely change their entire self before turning into butterflies. I'm picturing them turning into a sort of caterpillar mush and then somehow magically, during this Cuisinart process, remembering who they want to be and creating wings and the design of their future selves. I'd like to do that too--let go of everything and begin again. Then, remember who you are by looking at the shapes of things, find a piece of art or look through your closet and find a particular kind of clothing or even simply a color. Remembering who you are (from scratch) is one of life's most odd pleasures. It's scary, but a good one. Let's do it. Begin with green and then... just let go.