Suddenly September: all of us reporting back to our respective narrative arcs, with stories to sell, and reinventions, the parts that do not get laughs, or turn heads, or grow legends often every bit as transformational in the end, even if it is we who must remember them to ourselves. The pocketful of keepsakes – the pebble, the feather, the nut – we somewhere misplaced, the forest, the lakeside, the river we forgot to catch on film. The lady in the muumuu, something called piccalilli on the shelves at a roadside store. The crawdad just sleeping - not pinching or waving its terrifying claws – the minnows careening between our legs. The swimming lesson that didn’t result in our drowning or becoming an Olympian. The dead sparrow we buried behind the hedges. Relatives we’ve never met, or will never see again. A sunset lingering so long we can hardly put our finger on its beginning, and never quite believe the voices calling us in when it is done.