FIVE STAGES OF DESERT SUMMER

This summer has been more miserable than past summers or at least seemed that way. August is the sweaty, smelly crotch of summer--the worst of the worst. It hasn't helped that the cat needed an expensive procedure, that my HOA has demanded a pricey house painting and that I needed a root canal. How much suckier can it get? Or maybe I shouldn't ask. Summer, you have inspired this poem:

This tree decided it didn't want to live anymore.

It creeps in. Not so bad in early June.
A whisper of morning cool. Fiery sun disappears into softer night.
The cat ventures out. Garden plants are not yet withered into dry husks beaten down by hot, white light.
I can live with this. My life isn’t over.
DENIAL.

Why is it so fucking hot? Misery pervades every activity. Sweat drips from every pore, crying a puddle of despair. Torrid, heavy air a bludgeon, beating down anyone hapless enough to venture outside. A violent, unrelenting, malevolent force. The cat goes out; comes back to lay in a panting heap.
ANGER.

Just one little cloud to block the sun? A hint of less heat? Is that a raindrop? One little breeze? The cat stays in.
BARGAINING.

Endless. Pointless. Life. Why bother doing anything? Moving is too much effort. My energy drains. Intense dry heat replaced by intense humid heat. Trees fall over in the wind; lack the will to stand up. Big black bugs emerge to herald apocalyptic despair. Cicadas rasp a death rattle. The cat goes out, comes back in and throws up.
DEPRESSION.

I will survive. Summer is a mere six months. It creeps out. It leaves scars. The cat still goes out.
ACCEPTANCE.

A Writer's Workshop doodle by Connor Rickett