The wind is blowing. Everything around me moves with it, but subtle changes have happened when I wasn't looking. Flowers faded. Nests emptied. Leaves brittled so that now, rather than rustling, they rattle. Summer has, without permission, drifted from what is to what has been, cramming itself into what must be my almost-full bag of THE PAST.
It's big, that bag, and getting bigger, full to almost bursting with first my own youth, then my children's, with the grandchildren not far behind. It holds all of our early missteps, dreams, and triumphs. It hides our disappointments and shames, too. Heavy now. Too heavy to carry, but still draggable and by now a familiar companion.
I realized this morning that the bag of THE PAST holds not only my youth but all my memories of Dave. That's new. It took a long time for him to climb in there, and took a lot of sad work, too, but there's more. Italy has migrated there, too, taking with it all the spontaneous music and unapologetic beauty of Florence. They've been displaced as memory always is by newer revelations and more recent days, mine accompanied these days by surf and seagulls. 
They just keep coming, the days, insisting on new sunrises and fresh breezes. More days than I'd expected, but I can't help but relish them, trying to store up the feel of them in case they are the last.
Maybe the full bag is a blessing after all, even while it sometimes feels a burden. Not everyone's bag carries as much, nor are they all so full of so much that was so good. It may be true that summer is waning in more ways than one, but as I look around I find new buds next to almost-spent roses. Life asserting itself. There may even be enough time to see them open.
