What will I miss most?...Berry Weiss, of course.

If you listen to enough John Mayer, you, too, will write.

I sit at the North Avenue Beach nostalgic over this summer. The city ogles over my right shoulder quite aware that this is one of the last times we’ll be meeting like this. I try not to make too much eye contact—makes these things harder, you know?

In front of me: the lake—the Great Lake. Its vastness not understood until one greets it properly. A group of thirty-somethings play toss with a football. The girl in the water can’t catch, and it frustrates me.

To my right, a teenager takes a picture of his friends in the water careful not to get his IPod wet. He can see their smiles but can’t hear their laughter. Why do we do that?

To my left, four young girls buy ice cream from Mr. Good Humor. They each walk away with the same treat. I wonder if that’s really what each one wanted. There must be a leader in the group.

Edging along the beach, an old woman, nothing short of 90, enters my vision. She walks along the water wearing a yellow jump suit. She’s the tannest one of all of us. Her grin is noticeable. Undoubtedly, we all wonder what was so good? What is so good? She pits a stop 5 feet from the water line and reveals a bathing suit. While she lies back, she uses her hands to hold her head up, not taking her eyes off the view one second. Who could blame her?

It’s a beautiful day—not a degree above 78, and the sky is clear. One of those days you can’t justify ignoring for casual duties. I wonder what brings so many to the beach on a weekday. We can’t all have the luxury of free summers, can we?

I haven’t done much this summer besides what I’ve wanted to do. But that’s how it was supposed to be. Nestled into a studio apartment in the heart of Lincoln Park (twenty-something’s city center) and four blocks from the beach, Tara and I aimed high this summer. With no internet, no television, and an unsatisfying Chicago radio, the room’s activities were bounded. We thought things to circles, talked things to annoyance (me mostly), and reflected past any moment of learning.

We dug deep and sometimes to our own detriments, but you can’t regret something like that. There were nights I didn’t fall asleep until Tara woke up—an over-conscious mind and 90 degree apartment working well together against me. I digress...

I can’t decide how I feel about leaving this place. I must continue to remind myself: summer is an exception, right?

When I leave Saturday morning, I’ll be heading toward a lot of new, a lot of concern, and a lot of possible mistakes. Life has paused for me this summer, though, as if to make up for three years of severance and prepare me for two more. I cannot be more appreciative of this.

Life has paused so I can be with my friends and remember why our company is so great and why college was so good—not that I ever forgot.

Life has paused so I can meet my niece and spend hours in a Costco while my brother changes a ridiculous diaper. So I can see him be a dad.

Life has paused so I can greet my nephew without leaving the day after. A visit that I hope makes the next introduction a little less scary for him…

Life has paused so I can sit outside 720, drink something that is not Berry Weiss, and enjoy an unusual break and moment of chatter with my favorite people.

Life has paused so I can remember where my humor comes from and help Gary one more time with the computer.

Life has paused so I can appreciate the two people who love enough to let me go, and I wonder, if one day, I will love like that.

Life has paused so I can think, talk and reflect with my buddy, and remember to never, ever underestimate her.

Life has paused so I can feel ready to push play again, ‘cause Saturday is coming, and I know nothing slows down anymore.

The clouds have moved in…no, they haven’t, but my phone reminds me it’s time to move on. We’re making pizza at Jack’s tonight, and tonight I say good-bye to my buddy.

As I walk away, I look back at the old woman one last time. Her head rests back on the sand now but still angled at the horizon. She reminds me that no matter how old we get, we’re never too old to wonder: what’s next?