One Last Blast of Summer
The heat flies in from over the mountains.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Wet, with flash floods.
It was supposed to be cooler. That's what they promised on the news.
Which, perhaps is why we never listen to the news.
Don't go to Rochester, they said.
I have to go, I responded. I've had the tickets for weeks.
Don't go. The vibe is weird. The vibe is bizarre.
It can't be bad, though, I said. I'd know.
You know it's weird.
That's just the heat. Just the blast from the summer. It's the humidity, not the weirdness.
You know it wasn't the heat.
And you went. And it was horrible. Worse than you'd imagined.
The lesson isn't Rochester. Although you stayed away for decades.
The lesson was something else. Something you didn'd want to see.
And every year, at the end of summer, or when it just heats up, you remember.
Fuck Rochester. Sure, there's that.
But when you let yourself breathe, you know there was more. Flying in from over the mountains. With the flash floods and the heartache.