Dear August in Texas,

I hate you.

The unrelenting heat marked out in a long line of stifling, unchanging triple digit segments trudges across my screen. Day and night have stopped making sense. There’s just hot, more hot, and I think I’m dying hot. It’s disrespectful.

I live like a vampire, moving from shadow to shadow, dodging sunlight. Waking before dawn to dress and pray, only to step into the heavy, already heated morning air. Thankful to work inside, I make the dash from car to office. Lights turned down low, blinds drawn tight to the piercing sun, I tie up my hair, turn down the air, and set to work. That one girl in a cardigan knocks on my door to complain of the cold. I crunch my Sonic ice and ignore her.

Heading out for my daily rounds, I’m met at the door by a blast of hot air, burning my face and taking my breath. The heat comes up from the pavement in waves, blazing sun without mercy beating down from above. Even through my darkened car windows, the sun reaches down and pulls me into a scorching embrace. I feel myself bake under its unwelcome attention, as my mascara coated lashes stick to my cheeks.

I hear they’ve cancelled the lawn mower parade out in West Texas again. It seems the tires are melting into the asphalt. The only piece of this news that I find surprising is that there’s a lawn mower parade at all. Of course the roads are melting from the heat. Wait- what?

Sapped of energy, I stumble home in the late afternoon and strip down for a fever dream under the fan. The teasing melody of a beachy, salt box August floats over me, elusive as the breezy summer picture it paints. I awake at dusk, eat late, and spend time with my family in the dark. Don’t touch me.

Heading out before bed to water the plants, 11pm and it’s still suffocatingly hot. I think of the winter, vowing to never curse the cold again as I silently pray for a summer storm to bring the rain.

Friday night lights bring no relief as the Boys of Fall play ball on long dead grass in the 110 degree heat. Patrons pass out on the sidelines and we shuffle out of the stadium in sweaty rows.

In a burst of Saturday morning optimism, I brave the attic to gather decor for the season ahead and (hopefully) cooler weather. Putting the last Autumn leaf in place, I can almost believe Fall is coming, (that ever elusive friend), until I step outside and my Pumpkin Spice candle melts unlit in my hand.

Dear Texas in August, I hate you.

But I will survive you, and because you are Texas, I’ll take you.