Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Earl claims that September and October are his favorite months, although I’m not sure why he feels that way. I’ve never asked.

For me, each month has its qualities, so I just take them as they come. In September, I look forward to cooler evenings after the summer’s scorch and to less yardwork after the growing season’s flurry. The days are shorter, but they are still long enough. I can weed after dinner and not be in the dark. But . . . I don’t have to weed as often as in the summer months.

September also brings schoolbusses onto the roads again. And crossing guards and falling leaves and campfires. Autumn doesn’t officially begin until September 21, so the month holds the vestiges of summer but not the promise. If things haven’t bloomed by now, they aren’t blooming this year.

September also holds the birthday of my older son, Kevin. He was born on September 11 long before that date held meaning for most Americans. I can remember that particular month and day as if it were yesterday, and I’m saddened that he now has to share a private birthday with a most public event.

My friend, Carol, whom I’ve known since I was ten years old, was also born on September 11, a coincidence I relished in the years shortly after my son was born. But now I feel for her too.

So September arrives and I remember what I like and don’t like about it. Mostly, I’m glad to be here to enjoy the month once again.