August

 August is bitterly comforting. To me, this is the time where I envision the origin of new beginnings, as opposed to springtime. August sends a breeze that cuts through the thickness of the morning heat and knocks down a few of those blossoms that debuted in May, reminding us that inevitable change is imminent. She eases you out of the familiar warmth of summer’s sun and into autumn's comforting chill; like a mother sending her children off to school, she won't let you leave without a homemade lunch and a kiss on the forehead. August gently reminds you that the real work begins now. Disregarding the novelty of spring and the frivolity of summer, August asks how you've been– how you've changed since you’ve seen her last. She smiles as you regale her with your answers, weaving your words of revelations into a blanket that she drapes over the arm of the couch you're sitting on. You snuggle into it, marveling at it, admiring the masterpiece you've become. She brings you a Diet Coke, and you enjoy the chill it provides you with under the warmth of the blanket. August checks her watch. Reluctantly, she hastens you along, reminding you that your new season must start now if you want to debut a matured blossom next springtime.You worry about the trials you have in store, but she squeezes your shoulders in reassurance. You promise to tell her everything when you see her again, then exit out the back porch, the crinkling of leaves underfoot as you walk away. 

I’m not sure when God created the world, but it must have been in August.