I can see by my television that it is Memorial Day weekend. Tributes to fallen soldiers? Documentaries? Public-service announcements? Car commercials, actually. Big-time sales. Hurry. Now. All those “Russian” words (jarring, isn’t it?).
I can see by my neighborhood that it is Memorial Day weekend — the unofficial official (or is it official unofficial?) opening to summer. What I am seeing is the absence of a lot of things I usually see. Namely people. They are all gone, it seems, to their unofficial official summer houses. Or, at the very least, to their official unofficial holiday weekend rental.
Meanwhile, I walk my dog in eerie silence. No one for the pooch to snarl at. He should be named Monopoly because he dislikes other dogs and wants the neighborhood to himself. Happy, happy dog!
I can see by the temperature that it is Memorial Day weekend. The past two days Mr. Fahrenheit has nudged ninety, pas-de-deux with his partner, Ms. Humidity. Fans. Air conditioners. Dry throats. I might as well move to the South where entire existences are spent indoors on recycled air. “The South” being the 7th Circle of Dante’s Hell, of course.
How is your Memorial Day weekend, then? Are you on the ocean with your family and your phone? The mountains, maybe? Don’t tell me. A lake house!
Or are you like me, feeling… left behind, out of it, un-hip? As Emily Dickinson would say, “Then there’s a pair of us–don’t tell!”