You made it. Never mind if it's not the exact day your season's to arrive. Some may not be ready for the last one to leave, but I won't miss those two old hotheads, July and August. You've returned, and that's all I need.

I may never understand this. I think I've stopped trying, and give myself permission to just enjoy all you bring, Sweating less, digging out comfy old jackets and slacks. If they don't feel good, they don't get worn. Same goes for shoes.

Next stop, school supply shelves in the nearest store. Journals, pens, and little note pads wait for me, and I indulge. Maybe only another writer would understand this, but when I choose a few, especially if I don't need them, I feel luxurious.

You bring situations and events no other month of the year does. Your first Monday's reserved for the workers in our country. Cookouts and other events salute their sweat and toil. Have you considered what would happen if none of them showed up for work on your second Monday?

Another event we must never not show respect for, must never forget, is Nine Eleven. What American does not know what those numbers represent? Our freedom to live and be, to savor you again, to walk among the leaves you'll shed before a colder month returns. But until then September, I will cling to you.