I usually take months to fill a handwritten journal. The one I finished this morning took exactly six weeks. I began it in the dog days of summer, sitting in the hammock as twilight fell, two days before flying to France. I knew that when I returned, the season would almost be over.

And though we’ve had heat and humidity, dry parched earth and one torrential rain, the calendar tells me that autumn begins today. So I finished the journal, tying the summer in a bow.

I filled about half the 80 pages the last two weeks. In the rush of travel there may only be time to record names, dates, places, impressions. Digesting it all begins later. This time it began while I was waiting for the return flight. I wrote for hours, capturing moments I was afraid I’d forget: three Eurostar conductors on the platform frantically puffing their cigarettes after we reached Paris from Brussels. The flapping plaid flannel shirt of a cyclist who zoomed past me in Amsterdam. The translucent orange butterflies at the Botanical Gardens.

Words like ripe fruit that I process and freeze, preserved for the future. The words and the seasons were in sync for a while. Now summer is over, but the words remain.