Yesterday was what the average person (if such a thing exists -- average by whose history?) would consider a beautiful day. It was a golden morning, with a large, vivid, indeed blinding ball of fire sitting on the edge of the world, preventing those of us trying, foolishly, to drive east at that hour, to be able to see. At all. And those of us with dirty windshields, to be completely unable to see anything except a vague and blurry outline of the tail of the car ahead. It did not even have its taillights on, so only a darker blur, in the midst of the obliterating fire of the sun facing me. I had my hand up to cover it, and my sunglasses on and my visor down, but I was still blinded, eyes filled with tears, incapable of sight. And still I drove. Very stressful.
And yet this morning, with a soft grey cloud cover, is a morning that several people have complained of, in my hearing. As though it was stolen from their pocket by a malicious sprite who doesn't want them to have a real, true summer. As though summer were a blue and gold entity that you unwrap from its tissue paper and set out each year, complete from the last day of school to the first day of school. As though (again) the weather was regimented and scheduled according to the school year! Bah, I say.
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