The end of summer always comes with mixed emotions. Here in Oklahoma, the heat still presses down heavy, cicadas humming in the background, the air thick with August’s last gasp. But the school year is approaching for my youngest, and that means the easy, unstructured rhythm of summer is about to be replaced with early mornings, packed lunches, and busy days.
Part of me is sad to see it go. The late mornings. The extra time together. The small, unplanned adventures. But another part of me is quietly grateful. With her back in school, I’ll have more time for me—for my writing, my musings, and the quiet that fuels them.
This year, though, the quiet will feel different. It will be the first without my beloved dog, Elvis. There’s something about the presence of a big dog—that steady companionship, that unspoken promise of safety—that a house feels emptier without. Writer Cat is here, of course, judging me from her chosen perch, plotting my demise between naps. But she is no replacement for the warm weight of Elvis curled at my feet while I worked.
And then there’s the part of parenting that’s been catching me off guard lately—realizing I have a seventh grader. In five short years, I won’t have a child at home. I’ll have an adult.
Time is strange that way. It passes in a blink, yet sometimes stretches so slowly it feels like you’re watching each moment form in slow motion. I remember her toddler laugh, the way her tiny hands once clung to mine, and at the same time, I see the teenager she’s becoming. I made the choice years ago to have no more children, and I don’t regret it. But there’s an ache in knowing my last is growing up faster than I’m ready for, and my first is already grown and gone.
The seasons change whether we’re ready or not. The air will cool, the mornings will be quiet, and life will move forward. I’ll carry the sweetness and the sorrow both, letting them live side by side—just as the summer sun fades into autumn’s light.
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