bonfires

There's a day every summer when you realize the days are getting shorter again, it's not going to be summer for much longer. There's something about the summer months, even if they're long and hot and uncomfortable and there's that lull, like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For me, that day came on a late, cool sunny evening when we were having a bonfire out on the beach, drinking beers and watching the waves and the flames and the sunset and not caring about anything. Suddenly there was this air of finality about everything. I didn't comment, and no one else seemed to notice, and the fire burned deep into the night. First there was laughter, light conversation. Then a few people went home. The conversations got quiet, more intense. I watched my ladylove as she talked in that lyrical way that she has, her every sentence a poem, her laugh the perfect harmony to the evening. Even in the serious conversations, she was always smiling, always poetic, always on the verge of laughing. She was someone who felt everything was beautiful.

There would be more nights like this, I knew. More barbecues and bonfires and late nights in the setting sun. But they were coming to an end. It would be autumn soon, and autumn is a time for autumn girls and chilling winds and falling leaves, for hats and scarves and woollen coats and sly smiles, for changes and unrest and urgency. It was only a matter of time before there was no more time for basking in the summer sun, sunburnt and lethargic, content that the evenings would last forever. They all do, for a while.