Last week, I told my family that I wished to welcome autumn on August 1. Not Thanksgiving, not Halloween, just autumn. I have my reasons, and nearly all of them involve allowing the land and the weather to lead us. As summer crawls on, we begin to feel a nip in the air most mornings and nights. We start to see the sunset at bedtime, instead of midnight. And the fireweed. The fireweed! In early summer, the fireweed grows as a tall green stalk and begins to bloom from the bottom, a pale pink peeking out to the world. In August, fireweed plants shoot their magenta blossoms all of the way to the top, and then begin to blow them away. And so, I follow the fireweed and declare August 1 the beginning of autumn. I asked for an unpacking of the fall decor box, a halibut stew with crusty bread and red wine, and something fall-ish on TV. My family collectively rolled their eyes, because we are still very much in summer, but they agreed to my wish list.
Today, I sat at a woman’s bedside on our makeshift COVID unit, coaxing and cajoling her into eating small bites of watermelon. I am learning, you see, that this viral variant makes them lose their appetite and their will to stay awake. They only want cold, sweet things and barely open their mouth between fitful, feverish naps. As I sat there, feeding her watermelon, bite-by-bite over the course of thirty minutes, opening my mouth to encourage her to do the same, only to remember I am layers-deep in an N95 and eye protection and she cannot see my mouth at all, I looked up and out. Beyond the negative-pressure hoses that snake from her window, I saw it. The fireweed had officially reached the top of the plants outside. On August 1, of all days.
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