The daytime temps still reach into the 90s, but at night you can feel the chill in the air that precipitates fall.
Weekdays bleed into weekends in slow motion with little delineation.
The toxic glow of Fox News permeates the living room, so I hide away hunched over the laptop. And when the noxious wind of judgment and hatred from various numbered clubs and televangelists reaches its fever pitch, I head out on the bicycle trying to put miles between myself and my world.
The kids are spread out over two sets of grandparents trying to find a foothold after eight years away.
We pick up where we left off with old friends like it was June, 2007. Except their kids are growing up and leaving, which reminds of us of the advance of years.
Parents are more linear, more set in their ways, but then so are we, which provides the friction that causes the smoke that tells us there is a fire somewhere.
It’s months-long therapy for a chronic condition picked up in transit. Or a way to sift though life’s choices, to read the map looking for wrong turns and detours missed.
An unplanned rest stop in a slightly familiar place.
The radio silence is deafening.
When everyone else is living out loud.