When Summer Closes, and my car eats my keys

The end of summer comes not with silence,

but with the clatter of return.
Today, the road home weighed heavy—
the car loaded beyond reason,
unloaded of tents and stoves, gas and food,
utensils, stories, laughter,
and two giant trees rescued from indoors
to carry with me like green guardians.

From Green Gathering to the Battle trail of 1066,
I gave and gave—performing, dancing, listening,
holding space for young and old,
pouring energy into love, into life itself.
And yet—on arrival—
my car swallowed its keys in one final trick.
The hill climb of fatigue turned steeper:
front door broken down,
spare keys sought in weary hands,
concern rising with the tick of the parking clock.

Still, I sat.
Tea in hand.
Three weeks’ worth of unopened life.
And the first envelope, a fine—
for resting too long at a service stop,
because even a traveler must breathe.

The tests pile high:
plants lost to thirst in my absence,
rooms that demand reset,
soil to replant, walls to cleanse.
It echoes of Madrid schooldays long ago—
summer’s golden arc breaking,
the return always sharp, abrupt,
as though September insists on its bang.

Yet the gulls still wheel overhead,
the sun still tints the day.
Its fainter rays soothe me,
reminding me that hope is quiet,
but present.
That day one after summer is always the hardest,
and I must be ready for it, next year,
as I’ve told myself for 21 years now—
since the first return in 2004.

A reset, yes.
But also a beginning.