Well, @imdano, you really captured the spirit of the thing. You see, I’m a teacher. For years, now, I’ve declared that the summer is the teacher’s weekend. At least for northerners, June is Friday. You get out of work toward evening (let’s say June 22), and it’s dance party time! July is basically Saturday. Enough said. August is Sunday.

As someone attached to the humanities, Sundays (for decades) have been all about reading and giving feedback on student work, planning the week, reading for content, and reflection. Naturally, this lends itself to an immediate nostalgia for what has just past: Friday afternoon/evening; Saturday. There’s always this sense that I could do it better next time, reach a bit further for the gold ring, be more mindful of the gifts such time bestows.

I am also reminded of Derrida’s treatise The Gift of Death. It’s paradoxical but true. The inevitable timeline imposed makes the mortal experience all the sweeter, provided one has the ability to see it. Gathering with the people barefoot on the lawn, feeling that August evening breeze, reminds us of this all-too-fleeting sweetness. What a gift, indeed.

Thanks again for the thoughtful post.