There is a great sadness within me tonight, and I am not sure why. My child slumbers peacefully in the room next to me. We have had a good day. The sweet girls next door are having a sleepover, I think; when I sit on my back deck, I can hear their shrieks of laughter as they play with a spotlight, and it occasionally shines my way. I am prone to melancholy, but tonight should be a happy one. I will just accept it as a day without rain, and move on.

Maybe it’s the sound of their laughter that is hard for me. I adore these young girls; maybe it is the knowledge that my own girlhood is over that saddens me. They have a summer stretched out in front of them, a time of soccer, of fireflies, of swimming with friends. And I will find things to hate about myself, as usual; I’m afraid I will let another few months tick by without accomplishing much, without being stellar. I love the autumn, the winter, the early spring, but summer saddens me. It has always been my least favorite season. I do not like watermelon. I am prone to sunburn. I’ve never felt the need to run through sprinklers or catch fireflies, though I appreciate their sweet glow when I am wine-flushed. I am topsy-turvy, at sixes and sevens tonight, and perhaps I should just turn in.

But the night beckons me. I love the silence (though I don’t mind the sounds of their sleepover). I love the quiet time, when I’m not on duty, when I can imagine that I am a girl again, staying up late, reading a novel by the thin light of a seashell nightlight. I can imagine I am young again.