Months of fragments, of the failure of one pill and non-failure of another, of the more frequent surprise of a full night’s sleep, all crawling towards 1 september and the beginning of my favorite time of year.

September, when scorching heat is still possible, but more as finale than act 2 of summer, where the firm and luscious pleasures of Italian prune plums and concord grapes make for an entirely welcome transition to the sweater drawer, and there is no end to the fragrant harvest. Well, at least not until mid October.

Maybe the years of school and later, the years of working for a University or in a college town have conditioned me to see September, not January, as the fresh start of the year. January feels like less than half-done – but September’s promise of what can be learned, tasted, and even what new love might be discovered makes me feel hopeful, and almost young again.

Nora’s morning naps mean abdominal exercises, shower, laundry, and writing to you. Sorry I’ve been gone so long.

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