Summer is upon us. I can feel it in the quiet oppression of the once cool morning air. I can smell it in the dying of the spring blossoms – so fragrant just a few short weeks ago, now pungent in their decay. Their death is the final cue for spring to flee and leave us in the wilting, silent heat.
And yet I find comfort in the predictability of it all. Summer comes, year after year, followed by autumn, winter, and spring. I cannot change it, I cannot prevent it. I can only feel it. It is life, and it feels good.