August

by Barbara Worton

This is a summer of atmospheric turbulence, of disturbances in the force, of prayers unanswered, of a cratered moon surrounded by rings and of hurricanes suspended over the Atlantic like Satan’s sword.

The moon seems unable to spin on its axis, stuck in the center of the sky like some second-grader’s papier-maché clump from a solar system diorama—including Pluto, even though it got bumped from the list of major planets and hasn’t been reinstated yet.

The earth is moving around the sun. I saw it creep up over the horizon at dawn. But the air’s not warming to a hazy, hot, humid beach day. I suspect this is the work of some cosmic plumbing problem, clogged filters, leaky pipes, dripping until fire is smoke.

I look for the silver lining in the 70-degree temperature, low-lying clouds, clammy breeze and smog. Ah-ha! The cellulite fairy has come to my rescue. It’s a miniature golf, not a beach day, so I won’t have to wear my bathing suit and suck in my stomach all day. Yippee!