Devonne Brown

The Last Sunday of Summer

Today is the last Sunday of summer. I go back to school tomorrow. A whole new ride starts. I didn’t think about it until yesterday. God, I hate giving up summer. 

I became a writer this summer. Being a writer gives you permission to stay home and write. In fact, if you’re a teacher, it’s somewhat admired. I spent time and money on writing. Total immersion. I hate to relinquish the accessibility of writing to the regular workday again.

I was in a bad place when the school year ended. Between the corona virus and the general pandemic of teenage angst, my students had gotten to me. I needed some downtime, some time for retrospection and reflection. 

Writing gave me what I needed. I spent the summer season in my head. I calmed down. I wrote. I wrote with a group of people and I wrote alone. I’m lucky to have had that opportunity and outlet. I could sit down and write a sentence about anything at any time. Writers do that. I got to do that. That’s not to say I won’t sneak a sentence on a bit of paper here and there after school starts, especially if I have a good pen in my hand.

When you write all the time you stay in your head and don’t want to come out. I’ve become comfortable meandering through the setting of my novel and hanging out with the characters. I’m not finished with it, but I won’t have mosey time time now. I’ll have to schedule time for the world I’ve lived in all summer. 

I don’t want to leave my world or go back to school, but it’s time. The new ride begins. We decorate our classrooms and prepare the procedures for the safety of our charges. Each year is the same. I look forward to the fresh faces and my colleagues’ energies and talents. 

I just need to do the laundry.