where the writers are

He’s acutely aware that it’s May, almost the middle of the year, and he thinks more and more often about phrases like “Time flies.”  He finally grasps, now that he’s well past mid-life, the math at play that makes summers come and go far more quickly than when he was just a boy, waiting around for what seemed like an eternity for the birthday cake, the carousel’s turn, the inevitable season’s change.

It’s the middle of May, first time this year that the temperature’s been in the seventies for more than two consecutive days. He’s acutely aware of all the hot girls on Main Street in halter tops and shorts, in sandals and sunglasses; and he’s glad to be alive, an old man in a shady café, sipping iced tea and still breathing in the springtime air.

It’s May again and it’s Wednesday, the middle of the week. He begins to think he’ll probably muddle through somehow; somehow find his second wind, find a way to make it home reasonably unscathed and more or less ready to face the inescapable summer’s heat, the cold and unavoidable fall.