I'm sitting in the kitchen with the windows open, doing homework. (No, really. I am. Okay, I'm not reading this very second, but I will. In a minute.) The world outside looks beautiful--all bright sun reflecting off the dark green leaves on the honey locust and sugar maple in the yard. In the big brick apartment building across the street, someone is playing the trumpet. Some days, as we walk to the corner, we can also hear a pianist practicing there. There used to be a violinist living on the first floor of our building, too, but I think she moved out. Too bad; it was a nice to listen to while waiting for the elevator.
It's still technically summer, and it really feels it around here. So humid outside, and that flat, pressing buzz of cicadas hovering over the sidewalks. Just last night it felt like fall. I like this, the ever-changing weather. Some days we eat ice cream, other days we drink tea. It's time to start thinking about new, more serious things, like seminars and writing assignments and budget meetings, but I'm still caught up in the sensory joys of summer, and I think everyone else is, too. No one wants to sit inside all day.
On Labor Day, we took the ferry out to the Harbor Islands. What is it about islands that so capture our collective imagination? People love to go to islands. I guess it's the idea of being in a self-contained world, away from the everyday. Stephen and I looked out from the ferry at the many islands in the harbor and tried to choose one to live on. I think we settled on Great Brewster. Yes, I know this is impossible. But we would have a house built next to the hill, and some sheep, and a dog. And when people came to visit, they'd cross the harbor on a boat. We'd sit up on the hill and watch the sun set over the city.
