The days are shorter, but still warm and oh, so humid. The dry days of August have waved goodbye, and the monsoons of the Pacific Northwest fall have once again made their presence felt…three weeks ahead of schedule. Lightning flashes across the sky and thunder rolls, shaking the house and waking the occupants, who turn in their bed and hug each other for comfort.
The mornings are dark, and the kitchen feels warm and safe. The coffeemaker gurgles to a finish and I feel a sense of sadness, once again feeling as if I somehow missed the summer this year.
My husband walks quickly out to the old Forester and leaps in as nimbly as any strong old man might, dodging the wind and rain. He drives away through the dark, in the pouring rain. I, faced with the dark house and a mountain of work in my office, feel somehow abandoned by the gods of weather.
We didn’t have many dinners on the back porch. I don’t recall sitting in the pool more than once.
I don’t recall having my morning coffee on the back porch and that is something I look forward to all winter.
Was I abducted by aliens? Thinking logically, I must doubt that theory. My blog posts and work calendar all indicate I was here, apparently doing what I was supposed to be doing, but I don’t recall enjoying the rare bursts of sunshine that turn the summer skies a magical shade of blue here in Olympia.
I was here, because I definitely published a novella, Tales From the Dreamtime, a collection of three short stories, and I think it’s my best work yet. I’ve made a great deal of headway on various editing projects for private clients, and I have made headway on my own work. I wrote two posts a week for this blog, some of which I think are rather good posts. I read at least two books a week all summer, and blogged about them on Best In Fantasy. All these are proof I was here, but how did I miss the summer?
Both my mind and my Google Calendar say I was not abducted.
Nevertheless, I believe at least my mind was taken elsewhere, because summer has come and gone, and I have no recollection of it.
The rain pounds on the roof, and rattles the gutters. It flattens the grass and the flowers, and thunder rolls down our little valley. The rain is our identity, and our curse: the one thing we can count on.
A patch of blue becomes a jewel, a treasure in the eye of the beholder.