Two years ago, on Labor Day, I sat alone in what used to be my grandparents’ cottage and wrote about acorns falling on the roof and not wanting to go back to work the next day.
It wasn’t only because I wanted to continue loafing about. It was just so beautiful. The passing of time felt so poignant. I wanted to stay right there in that late-summer sun.
Time is still fleeting. The signs are everywhere. A sweatshirt on my morning walk for the first time in months. Traces of red and orange appearing among the green leaves. An accumulating pile of blog posts.
I’m still having fun with this weekly habit. I don’t know what it’s for or where it’s going.
And that’s the point.