That summer is here is pretty undeniable — in fact, unseasonably so: as we venture into graduation weekend, we’re beset by severe heat advisories and a serious fire in the mountains just to our north. All of that’s far more August than May, which might help explain some of the mild panic I feel; how can the summer feel this close to over even before it’s gotten started?
The rest of the panic, though, is pretty easily explicable: we’re leaving town for the entirety of the summer in six days, and the list of stuff I have to do before we go just keeps growing. I’m at the point now where I’m fairly confident it’ll all get done, but also beset by that peripheral sense that I’m forgetting something, that there’s some key thing that I’ll remember nine days from now, something only I can do, and in person at that.
Which is the point at which I tell myself to draw a deep breath, to burn that bridge when I come to it, and to keep my gaze fixed on what’s ahead: twelve weeks of writing in Paris. With that as a prospect, nothing else the summer can dish out can really be all that bad.