Judith ZimmerJournalist | Author | Fiction Writer

It’s the last days of August—and time feels like it’s lingering.  Still warm, still summer, yet there’s a stray yellow leaf on the lawn, a sign of what’s to come. In the back of my mind, I hear Dylan Thomas… “Time passes. Listen. Time passes.” These are some of the moments, some of the things, that have been passing.

There’s a small Delft blue bowl on my counter. A friend left it behind when she brought over blistered shishito peppers as an appetizer. The bowl is so different from any of my own that it stands out. My eye moves there constantly, and stays.

I go to memorials, one for an old friend on Long Island, one for a new friend in Litchfield. So much sadness in the faces of the families. I am glad to be there, to embrace, to say, I’m so sorry…. There are holes in all our hearts.

My husband and I drive past a car burning on the other side of the Saw Mill Parkway. A dark plume of smoke curls just ahead. At first, it looks like a road sign is on fire—and then the skeleton of the car appears. Sirens blare around us. I hold the steering wheel tight. We are not safe anywhere. Always remember that.

In July, I read four books of Ann Patchett’s (rereading three of them)—and now I’m reading three novels of Roxana Robinson’s. So interesting to watch other writers closely. The patterns and themes that emerge that you’re likely to miss if you’d just read one book.

We’ve lived in Litchfield for three years this summer. I’m beginning to trust the house in ways I didn’t when we first arrived. The same for the community, the people. How grateful I am for the feeling that this place is becoming my place. It’s made me think about where people put down roots.

The maple tree in August

At the tennis court, one of the players tells us that the stunning red maple tree in the corner was planted in honor of her father. We all turn to look. Sometimes between games we stand under it for shade. I try to imagine what she feels. I’ll never experience those kind of “roots” anywhere, but the feeling of having a place that is home is universal, no matter how it starts.

The word “August” comes from the Latin for augustus, meaning majestic, magnificent, grand. There’s nothing majestic or grand about these thoughts, except that they are meaningful to me, things worth listening to in these last lingering days of August.