The disappearing summers

No good place left to live

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The disappearing summers

On the one hand, there is my looming empty nest. On the other, the rapidly approaching end of the world. In between are the disappearing summers. Some of them are simply gone from time, part of the finite lifespan of a young family. And others are starting to feel ruined, marred, too hot, too wet, too fucked, no longer anomalies.

Is it possible to miss and not miss something at the same time? To long for the purity of exhaustion from simply having too many fun plans? To know (but not know, yet) that summers would become physically different in just twenty ten years? Here we all are, holding hands at the edge of a cliff. I guess what surprises me most about the end of the world is how much it smells like weed.