But the sun is a liar. A beautiful one.
Summer exposes. You wore less fabric, showed more skin, ate the ice cream, drank the beer. You have the mosquito bites, the scraped knees from that clumsy bike ride, the callus on your finger from paddleboarding. Your body holds the map of July. In the after , when you put the long sleeves back on, you feel the ghost of that exposure. It’s a scar you can’t see, but it aches when the wind turns cold. scars of summer after
Here is the secret: The after is not the end. It is the digestion. But the sun is a liar
Now we are in the after . The season hasn’t ended on the calendar, but you can feel the shift. The light is different—lower, honey-colored, desperate. The garden is a mess of overgrown zucchini and tomato vines that have finally given up. The beach towels smell faintly of mildew and regret. You wore less fabric, showed more skin, ate
The deepest scar isn't the sunburn or the heartbreak. It’s the acceptance that summer is a visitor, not a resident. You can’t keep the fireflies in a jar forever. You can’t hold the solstice. The after is a lesson in grief—small g grief, the kind that doesn’t shatter you but simply sits on your chest like a warm, heavy cat.
These are the scars of summer after.
So go ahead. Let the golden hour fade. Pull on the sweater. The light will return next June.
