You’ve finally learned why August scares you. You can name the terror of it, you see. It’s because the trees, the leaves, the cicadas - the children selling lemonade on the corner of the street and the sweet woman carving rose-shaped mangoes by her cart as well as the sun that once left at 8:30 PM, the electric buzz of noon and the obstinacy of New York’s humidity - all of them share a secret: Everything is coming to an end.
Something earthier and quieter is around the corner. Something that makes the trees shed their shadows and false pride. Something that makes them stand humble and naked is almost here. All that you loved, all that made your skin shine with the glory of running blood and dewy yearning, is nearly here. Everything is about to end. Everyone is about to leave.
This summer has been about not giving up. About clunky sentences and sudden absence; vulnerability in the sense of admitting your humanness without seeking - secretly or openly - redemption; about memorizing songs and letting one make you cry; texting your friend at 3 in the raw morning to say something you wouldn’t ever utter in broad daylight; telling yourself that it is okay to want; mysteriously canceling lunches and dinners because you couldn’t neatly fold your sadness and put it in your bag; sending your mother a heart emoji to encapsulate a hundred things; realizing that voicemail is the only way you can ease yourself into talking to your father who was once your friend. This summer has been about lapses and corrections.
LISTEN. TO. MY. SIS. MEHREEN.


