End of Summer: Homecoming & Pain

Anna Byrne

5 days ago

4 min read

“The flavour of life is bittersweet.”

Adapted from Sun House, by David James Duncan

It’s the week between August and September. Between summer and fall, for all intents and purposes. The last few years, I’ve noticed a pattern as this week approaches, a rising sense within me of nostalgia. It’s the recognition of passings, of endings, of change and transition. It’s liminal space, an in-between time. Liminal space can be hard to pinpoint, except in its emotional incarnations like nostalgia. Nostalgia: a wistful longing, mixed with sadness. Nostalgia, from the Greek words nóstos and álgos. In English: Homecoming and pain.

I’m sure the nostalgia is at least in part due to the early years of conditioning that summer means freedom, ease and a release from the responsibilities and routine of the school schedule. Summer seems to be a time of being outdoors, of sleeping in, of reading in the afternoon, of gathering and celebrating. And September somehow feels an end to that, even though fall is not entirely unwelcome with its warm drinks and new notebooks and fresh plans. Homecoming, and pain.

It’s been a true and proper summer here, energy wise. Along with local weekend festivals we’ve enjoyed, our 18-year-old niece graduated high school with a weekend of celebrations. We also hosted our 19-year-old niece from Ontario for three months—from June to just a few days ago. She got a job as a student nurse, made a ton of friends, and (I hope) had the time of her life. Not used to having a teen/adult hybrid living here, there were some sleepless nights, half-listening for her until she came in, sometime in the night, from being out with friends. It was a gift to give her a branch of the family to safely nest in while stretching her wings a little more. We also felt the joy of her wanting to spend the summer with us, 11 years after leaving Ontario when she was just 8 years old. Before we moved, we spent every Saturday night with her and her brother Connor, so my sister and brother-in-law could go out for dinner and a movie. There seems a miracle in that—a decade and half-her-life-later—of her wanting to be here. She left a few days ago and the day after, I felt the lowest I have in a long while. We’ll miss her terribly. Homecoming, and pain.

In the days since, when I walk the alleyways of my neighbourhood, I see the unlikely yoking of these words. A handful of grapes, darkened and sweet. The round ripeness of vine tomatoes. Next to them, the white globes of the hydrangea, browning like marshmallows toasted all summer under the sun. The light-eating plants, so bright in the spring, have faded to a yellow-green made from the sun’s softer tilt. As I walk, black bear scat litters every block. There are several that live in our neighbourhood, bedding down at night in a nearby thicket of blackberry bushes and trees. I saw a small one on the sidewalk last week, ambling along looking for supper. The scat is dense with plum pits and blackberry seeds and apple skins; another sign of the composting of summer. Fullness and downfall are twins. Homecoming, and pain.

In my writing life, after a very busy spring launching The Last Caravan, I took a break from reading events for the summer. The book is out in the world, with a life of its own. Seeing it on the ferries was a particular thrill, and a few weeks ago, I learned that TLC was a BC top-seller this summer. It’s readers who made this happen, and I’m grateful for everyone who has purchased a copy, shared one with a friend, or recommended it to their book club. Most of all, I hope it sparked curiosity and perhaps a conversation with loved ones around how we can better offer one another the companionship and comfort we all seem to want at the end of life.

One thing I’m really looking forward to this fall is a return to pen on paper. In mid-August, I attended the Festival of the Written Arts. Listening to other writers share their work, I realized how much I miss the practice of writing—actually drafting a story—and how much writing fills me.

I’m also working with local hospices, libraries, book clubs and community groups to offer a series of readings and workshops in the next few months. Get in touch if you are interested in hosting a virtual or in-person event, most of which are free of charge.

So, with the youthful energy of summer waning, I wish you the tutelage of creation, the mentorship of seasonal change and shifting light. Like bear, gorge yourself on sunlight and peaches and colours green. Then listen for the call of the interior, the savoury, the slow. And a warm homecoming for whatever pains you.