My own 500 days of summer.

As Labor Day looms, I feel it is only appropriate to say good-bye, formally, to a season that has brought me so much. With that...

Dear Summer,

I know you're already on your way out the door. The air is already starting to get crisp. Before you go, though, I wanted to say a big thank you for another fun, well, you. I have really enjoyed these past few months together. They've lasted longer than I expected, I was out and about much more than I ever realized I would be and my life was a lot brighter than it has been in a while.

I know our relationship has run hot and cold over the past 30 years and that we've had our ups and downs. As a child I loved you unconditionally. Back then, going to the beach everyday was a given. We'd run up and down the sand at Little Monmouth, frolic in the waves, take naps under 'forts' made of towels. We'd savor frozen Charleston Chews and blissfully buttery grilled cheeses as we waited at the pool for them to call the end of "adult time" and the beginning of "kids time", dropping as quickly as possible back into the icy cold water as soon as the whistle was blown. We'd go down the street to summer camp and ride our bikes all over the place. The ice cream man's song ringing through the neighborhood was the unofficial signal to plead with our parents for a dollar so that we, too, could get the screwball or strawberry shortcake we so wanted. We lost track of what time it was. We ate outside every night. We barely knew what day it was, each day happily, without care extending into the next. We'd walk the boardwalk, play skeeball and resign ourselves to the fact that no matter how careful we were, come bedtime there'd still be sand between our toes and sand in our sheets. And we were ok with that. As we fell asleep, the symphony of cicada would lull us down from the high of the day and before we knew it, sometime in the middle of the night we'd be reaching for our light blanket to avoid the chill from our open window.

But no relationship is perfect forever. And somewhere some way, we lost our way. When I reached my twenties suddenly I was no longer fulfilling my part of our 'contract' in regards to being a Jersey girl. I rarely went to the beach. I suddenly abhorred the heat. I stopped seeing all of your good points and silently started to hate you and all of the loud crowds you brought to the shore. I wanted to hide in a cave and only come out after the first of September. What was causing this tremendous change of heart?

Where was the love?

Was it the memory of the time that big wave knocked me down as a little 10-year-old, pulling me under so badly that when I finally emerged a lifeguard was holding me and my lungs stung from lack of air? Was I still bitter, somehow mad that that had happened on your watch? Was I missing the days that, when it rained, my babysitter Sue would take me to the movies and I'd wear cozy sweats in the icy cold theater? Or was it just that I missed my friends being only a bike ride away and the adventures that inevitably ensued once we were all together? Thinking now, I know I was not hating you but rather missing what you had once meant to me. As I grew and changed so did you. And I was unable to bring my past childlike appreciation full circle. I was unable to savor your days once again but in my own now more mature way. I was so busy flashing back to what had happened, I couldn't focus on what was happening.

But this time, happily, when you came around it was different. I made a conscious effort to notice all the great qualities you have. I soaked up your sun every weekend. I went out and met the men you bring to the shore. I savored your italian ice. I saw your movie blockbusters. I played croquet with my nieces. Some days I did absolutely nothing. I reminded myself of what makes you so great. With that, you turned into three months of happiness that felt much longer than a mere 90 days. With that, I was reminded that the reason I fell in love with you in the first place was not what you did for me but the opportunities you presented so that I could do things for myself. You created a bright sunshiney gateway to fun and I was lucky enough to walk through. And for that I am grateful.

So, Summer, please don't rush out. Linger. Warm our shores for a little while longer. Make the ocean temps still 'swimmable'. Remind me still of what makes you so great--your ability to let us all be kids again, in whatever form that may take.

Thanks.

-Me