This is the not-yet period.
September still adumbrates; 
But school is in session
in my head.

The anticipation grows.
The need-or-want 
purchase of supplies.

The annual potential
of that have-to-get
item that will make
classroom life easier.
Sometimes, it does.

Decor decisions.
To theme or not to theme.

The toppling pile(s)
of picture and chapter
books and more books
such guilty-lovely finds,
bursting to be introduced.

The whirling, spinning of ideas;
evolving strategies;
adrenalined new thinking
to share and explore.

The excitement of
reflecting back
so to be transformed;
To go forward anew
and begin again.

The rush of back-to-school.

When we were young, we did not need an internal clock or a calendar to signal the end of summer. We had our own arboreal marker that measured the seasons.

Early summer meant freedom, endless days and doing all of our whatevers. In the backyard, a lone green shrub stood and urged us to Just Pass Go and crash through the Red Rover line. When we glanced at it, we knew possibilities beckoned. Sleepovers, swimming, the ice cream truck chase, maybe miniature golf.

Every summer though, buds started to pill the canvas of the bushy tree: an early harbinger of change. A first glimpse of white evoked, every time, a knowing sense of oh-no-dread. Never prepared for it, we tried to will the green and summer to stay. We did not know then that wishes often lose to time.

And when the first blossom emerged in a blink’s time, our thoughts, as if in sync, began to look ahead. The welcoming sun, the glimmering water, the rambling plans all paled. These dwindling days called for organizing, getting ready, shopping and being focused.

We always called it the Fall Bush. Its beauty entangled with ambivalence.

Even now.

“You have to bleach them?” 

I looked down at the small brown disc in my hand, embarrassed. “I thought sand dollars were white.” Strands of feathery seaweed floated around my ankles.

My beach companions stared at me. I skimmed through my memories of collecting shells. No, nothing surfaced relating to sand dollars.

Minutes earlier, a casual walk along the shoreline had dissolved into a free-for-all treasure hunt at the first sighting. I found just two (with some needed help) while others had stacks. 

“No, they are alive. Feel the velvety side. You soak them overnight and they turn white. They're beautiful.” 

Alive?

“I, uh, thought they were just hard shells.” Appalled even more by my lack of ocean life knowledge, I stroked the soft side of what I now knew was a sea urchin. A live one.

I found the exhilaration of the quest evaporate then. I stopped searching and waded on.