After — Scars Of Summer

And you realize: That happened. I was there. I felt that heat.

Now we are in the after . The season hasn’t ended on the calendar, but you can feel the shift. The light is different—lower, honey-colored, desperate. The garden is a mess of overgrown zucchini and tomato vines that have finally given up. The beach towels smell faintly of mildew and regret. scars of summer after

Here is the secret: The after is not the end. It is the digestion. And you realize: That happened

We spend the first 30 days of June convincing ourselves that summer is infinite. The light feels eternal, the evenings stretch like taffy, and we make promises to the salt-wind: I will swim more. I will stay up later. I will not waste a single drop of this. Now we are in the after

You just sit on the porch in the cooling air. You wrap your hands around a mug of something hot. You run your finger over the pale line on your knee—the one from the dock splinter.

These are the scars of summer after.