I hate September. It’s the worst month, one of indecision, as if nature can’t make up her mind on whether to burn or ice us out. Either way, I know she’s restless. And frankly, so am I. Showers in September are lukewarm, food is middling, my hair can’t decide to smoothen out or frizz up, and my hands are either clammy or Saharan. September smells like bittersweet blueberries, the excitement of school friends and fresh clothes, new subjects in old ripped pages, the dread of leaving behind sunnier, freer days.
As I pack up my juvenile school life, I’ll be stepping into a world of extremes and absolutes. I’ll have to make countless decisions, become firm in who I am and want to be, try to choose at any moment between hot and cold, long or short hair, growing up or flying to Neverland. I’ll be happy, I’m sure. But I’ll have to leave my world of childhood Septembers behind.
One day I’ll miss September. But I’m thankful it’s not right now.