Midsummer's melancholy

Growing pains of empty nesting; the unfolding process of letting go

In the late afternoon this past Saturday, the heatwave that held NYC in its grips broke, finally. All of July it seemed like we were languishing in murky waters; the air was muggy and lingered on your skin. I opened the balcony door after the rain came down in sheets—quick, heavy, and sudden, making everyone outside scramble to gather their things and run. I was greeted with a rush of cool, dry air, something that I hadn’t felt in over a month. It was like meeting an old friend again. You pick up where you left off and you’re reminded of why you still like this person—or in this case, summer.

I was never a fan of summer until I had kids. I don’t particularly like hot weather and don’t enjoy moving through different climate zones every time I have a place to go: the heaviness of humidity, the suffocating staleness of subway platforms, and the cool shock of air conditioned spaces that turns too cold after it outlives its initial welcome. But I learned to love summer when the kids were young and I began to appreciate how the hot weather forced us to slow down.