The Weight of Fading Gold
I keep a pressed marigold inside a heavy dictionary, its edges now translucent and brittle as a moth’s wing. It was plucked in the final, frantic heat of August years ago, back when time felt like a river that would never run dry. When I touch it, the flower threatens to turn to dust, yet it remains a stubborn anchor to a season that has long since retreated into the shadows of memory. We spend so much of our lives trying to hold onto the warmth, pressing our experiences between the pages of our days, hoping that if we keep them still enough, they will never truly leave us. But there is a quiet, aching grace in the way things surrender their color. We are all just temporary vessels for the light, waiting for the wind to change, wondering if the beauty we once held is enough to sustain us when the frost finally arrives. What remains of a summer once the last petal has fallen?
Kirsten Bruening has captured this delicate transition in her beautiful image titled End of Summer. It feels like a soft exhale at the end of a long, golden day. Does this image stir a memory of a season you weren’t quite ready to let go of?
