As we turn the page to the month of August, I note that August is what summer is known for. The month of hot, dry, weather broken up sometimes by extended draught, or late afternoon thunderstorms – weather that provokes lethargy sometimes referred to as the “dog days of summer.” I’ve known for some time that the dog days in that expression are not about dogs but about the Dog star that appears between late July and September. Knowing this has not changed for me the image that still comes to mind for August. I see the family dog lounging and napping on the back porch, smart enough to ignore anything that would entice him to break a sweat. I envy his skill and dedication to rest.
For teens and young adults, August can mean days at camp or on summer vacations, times for crushes and first loves. Taylor Swift in her song titled “August,” addresses the summer romance with the line, “Back when I was living for the hope of it all.” She repeatedly reminds herself, “you were never mine; you were never mine.”
In the last several generations, August has been a significantly important month for my family. As the eldest of six children, I’m used to starting the month with a stack of birthday cards addressed, stamped and ready to mail to family members with August birthdays. I was often late for my brother-in-law Steve’s birthday which was the first, but my system worked to get timely wishes to his wife, my sister Maureen whose birthday was on the eighth, our sister Mary Jane on the twelfth, granddaughter, Vitoria on the 14.th daughter-in-law Jody on the 17, th and granddaughter Krya who will turn 12 this year, on the 28th.
I guess we could say that the month of December must have been an active month for our ancestors unrelated to holiday preparations. I also know, since I keep track of such things, that August is the month when three members of our family left this life, our mother Jane and father Joe, (though 16 years apart) and my daughter Corinne. Now, since last year there are two less birthday cards to prepare. Last August I had brought Mary Jane’s birthday card to her death bed in Louisville and Maureen left us suddenly last December, just before the holidays.
Returning home from my sister Maureen’s memorial and the memorial of my friend Christine’s father Lyndon, I was offered an opportunity to try my hand at an art that is well known for helping us process and celebrate the realities of life at it is–the art form of poetry. I participated in an hour-long online co-writing session, which is part of Suleika Jaquad’s Isolation Journal with probably 100 other women. We were given a writing prompt to begin with a line from one of two poems by Emily Dickinson, written 10 years apart on the theme of summer. Here’s what emerged as a message from me to me.
A something in a summer’s day –
Two white butterflies disturb the stillness of the scene as
they chase one another through the air in a swirling dance.
A motorboat interrupts the quiet calm of the river’s surface
as flower buds and leaves sway to the slight, occasional breeze.
The cough and congestion of my summer cold make it difficult to
breathe the dry hot air. Potted flowers and herbs struggle to persist
as promised rainstorms continue to avoid this part of the planet.
I recognize this as the time in each summer where I begin to fear
the season is moving too fast. It’s promises cannot be fulfilled.
A couple of weeks after the excitement of my birthday, I nurse the
welts left by mosquitos who devoured me during a recent visit to
my sister Maureen’s Texas trees.
Soon I will be sad that I haven’t taken enough advantage of this summer’s gifts, repelled as I am by the challenges they bring.
https://theisolationjournals.substack.com/
If you are in or near Pittsburgh, join me at the Contemporary Craft show “Hereafter” where, inspired by the show and with tools from the Art of Grieving book, we will craft and create objects of remembrance of loved one gone from our sight.
