Summer is the season of long days, ice cream, swimming pools, and sunlight streaming through the trees. Magic is in the air during summer.

Everything seems filled with hope and happiness. Especially for children like me, the summer calls for vacations, fun-filled games and homework-free days.

This has been an interesting summer. In all my years, my summer has been spent the exact same way- with friends and family and the great outdoors. This year definitely stands out from the rest.

Nevertheless, summer has and always will be my favourite time of the year, and even a pandemic is not enough to dampen my spirits. I went berry picking, read under trees, sketched beside a pond, fed ducks, and played elaborate games with my family.

But as with all good things, the undeniable fact is that it all eventually comes to an end, and summer is no exception.

There is something intrinsically sad about the end of summer. It is the end of willows, dewdrops and flowers, the end of lonely clouds in the sky, the end of the summer haze of hope.

All of us have complained and passed disgruntled remarks about this year. 2020 will remain perhaps one of the most despised years ever.

But the problems, the hurdles seem easier to bear under the sunshine. And when the cold eventually sets in, things might seem drearier than before.

And as we slowly step into autumn with each sunset, it’s time to say goodbye to summer.

Between summer and autumn, August acts as a transition period.

Sylvia Path puts it best, “August rain.

The best of summer gone,

the new fall not yet born.

The odd uneven time.”

August and I are like old friends and I’m often reluctant to let go, especially as its end marks the beginning of the school year.

So I slowly stuff my clothes into a suitcase and bring out the long shirts and sweaters as well as the books and schedules that had been carelessly stowed away.

My mind flashes back to last autumn. I remember the cold winds than brought forth the harsh winters with dread.

I sneer at the thought of squelchy mud and snow stuck to my boots and grimace at the long unending days that are not too far away.

I almost sound like a little fussy kid when I complain about abandoning my shorts and sandals, “Summer’s almost over” I pout.

But as my sister tells me, “There’s always next year”.  And so there is.


By Adyesha Singhdeo