August.

Portrait of a Young Girl (1899) painting in high resolution by Mary Cassatt.

August has become this sort of scratchy, loose-necked sweater that I won’t take off because it looked good on me in January.

I used to love August because my birthday is in August, and the birthdays of some of the many people I love are in August too, so what’s not to love about August? I’d celebrate, and I’d write wish lists, and I’d get what I wanted because what I wanted was a unicorn and a good swim in a nice body of water.

Now, I want things like inner peace and definite purpose, and neither of these things can be found at Toys R Us or at the bottom of a pool.

August wants me to change because it can only protect me for thirty-one days. August knows I rarely ever do, which is why I think we don’t get along as well as we used to. Every day of August is change, particularly the 18th, when against my will, August makes me a whole year older.

I remember once when we really loved each other, our tenth August together. Double digits, ten, practically sixteen, I thought. Ten was an exciting gift that only my tenth August could give me. August, ever obliging.

August is confetti or watching dust fall in the sunlight.

Expected. Transitory. Dazzling.