I turned my calendar over this morning and felt a pang of sadness and more than a hint of anger.

September.

Autumn on the horizon.

Shorter days. Longer nights.

And I don’t have a summer to show for it.

All of the things I had been looking forward to during this, our first official summer, remain undone.

This was going to be the summer of sand and surf and sea. Of boat rides and whale watching. Of sitting on the pier, trying out new restaurants, seeking out new venues.

Instead, we did what we were asked to do as our state continued to be in the red zone. As cases continued to climb, we listened as the medical community, educators and local officials begged the public to be responsible, to look out for one another and do the right thing.

We stayed in as we watched others go out. We cancelled plans with family as it was just not safe for them to visit.

And I know it is the right thing to do.
I know it is a small price to pay.
I am thankful and grateful for all that I have and my heart breaks for those who have lost so much more than their summer plans.

But in my selfish moments, in the part of me that I am ashamed to acknowledge, I can’t help but feel cheated as I turn August over and see September staring back.