The heat continues without reprieve, beads of sweat perpetually parked along the frame of white baby hairs around my face. I reluctantly descend into the heavy heat of the subway, try to parse my travels with breaks in air conditioned spaces. Speak in dreamy tones about fall foliage while perpetually reluctant to let go of summer as it wanes. All goodbyes are equally hard.
In a Brooklyn brownstone, we brainstorm avenues for a successful future, the one that lies just around the bend behind Labor Day, the one that requires a return to reality. You feel optimistic.
That, alone, is a gift, and you feel grateful to know it.
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