We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer's wreckage. We will welcome summer's ghost. -Henry Rollins
The pandemic isn’t over, but we’ve all pretty much decided to pretend it is. The anxious voice in my head that reminds me to take precautions still chirps like a smoke detector with a dying battery. I feel an occasional pang of guilt when I run across people who are still acting responsibly, but I rarely wear a mask unless I’m asked to, and I have stopped paying attention to any covid updates. Most of us barely talk about it anymore, except to joke about how we don’t talk about it anymore. The virus has won.
When August arrives, the social floodgates burst open, and I suddenly find myself with a calendar filled with things to do which don’t involve me sitting around the apartment with the cat. Once I get past my initial trepidation about hanging out around strangers again, I jump into these happenings and gatherings and events and performances with both feet -which, thankfully, are behaving themselves at the moment. I make a vow to cram the remainder of the summer with as much life as it will hold, and to say yes to everything.
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