Dear September |3

Every year, my friends and I are walking over a field, packed with camping chairs, cake, drinks, and umbrellas, leaving our parked car behind.

Every year we walk over a newly build wooden bridge, through a small forest, to get to a small tent with a table and very happy people in it. Every year we buy our tickets and keep walking. Every year we have the same spot, right at the fence, far away enough from the trash can that the wasps don’t attack us, but also close enough so its no drag to throw the candy wrappers and napkins away.

Every year it’s the same people, the same music, the same announcer.

The annual local horse race is so low key and casual that Ascot seems not only from another country, but actually from another universe. We eat fries and set low amounts of money on the prettiest horses or the ones with the funniest name. We scream, we laugh, we enjoy the last day of summer.

It is what it is with traditions. They not only come by every year, they also bring with them very special feelings. Cause for us, this is the last day. Once the Horse race is over, it’s autumn. Even when the sun burns from the sky and people put up paddling pools in their gardens, it doesn’t matter. The horse race is over, it’s autumn.


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