by Grace Batsie ’28 on September 17, 2026
Portfolio
There is a time of year in August where everything feels damp.
The fabric outside is odd to the touch.
Humid and heavy,
Even if it is bone dry.
The weight of the humidity is pressing into my ribs.
Something so good, so sweet,
Like August.
Always ends up being too much to hold.
My fingers are desperately gripping onto the goodness of August.
The memories, the song of the bug, the heat of the sun shining on my skin.
But the humidity seems to be making it hard to hold on.