There was a moment. It was the same every time but was most intense when the water began to cool. I loved it all summer long. Then I loved it and hated it. I’d stand on the bank of the river, gripping a rope in my hands, my toes digging into the dirt so I wouldn’t slip too soon. I’d take two more steps backward, dust smoking up from my feet. Then I’d launch.

The rope swing would sway out over the water, and I’d wait until just the right time to let go. For a millisecond, after my hands released their grip, I’d be weightless. Time would stop. I’d feel the rush of anticipation and the dread of the plunge simultaneously. Then I’d fall into the river. There would be a shock as my body left the still-hot air for the semi-cold water. I’d bob up to the surface and shriek loudly.

My friend, whom I only saw during the summer, would laugh and grab the rope. “My turn!” he’d cry and push himself off the bank. I’d watch him swing out, dangle briefly, and drop.

“Ahhhhhggghhh!” he’d say when he popped up from the depths. We did this all through July and August as the river warmed and felt like a bath. We kept doing this in early September as the river temperature became less friendly and the first leaf turned orange.

There was no school. No lessons. No homework.

As I’m stirring a big pot of beans for the yearly Labor Day picnic at Mom’s, I think about summer afternoons with Norman. I didn’t want them to end then and I don’t want them to end now. Things are about to change. There’s a transition that happens mentally at this time of year. It’s like trying to keep one’s feet from sliding off a riverbank. It takes effort. I don’t want to give up on summer too soon, but I don’t know if I can help it.

Labor Day weekend is that brief pause of weightlessness between the sweat and swing of summer and the cool plunge into autumn. I love it and hate it.

I love being with family every year on this weekend. I hate the way the light has shifted in the evening sky. It’s dark earlier. The water is losing its warmth.

My family and I eat dinner and then head out for a boat ride. Firefly glides on the lake, cutting through the water gently. She’s a Chris-Craft that my brother has restored. She’s my favorite kind of boat: small, wooden, lovely. I like going fast, but sometimes it’s nice to take things slow. The motor rumbles quietly as I turn to watch the twin tails of liquid it kicks up.

We cruise the lake languidly as a speed boat laps us. It laps us three times. We wave and shout to the faster boat each time it goes by. The driver waves back with a big grin.

There’s a large gathering of ducks near the middle of the lake. The nighttime temperature drop is starting to chill the air, but they don’t seem to mind. As we make our way back to the dock, house lights are blinking on. The sun is below the tree line, and it’s left a wide brushstroke of orange behind.

It’s only Saturday. There are two more days of this long weekend left.

There is no work. No cleaning. No planning.

As the brisk twilight air wraps around my shoulders, I know I will soon put aside all thoughts of sunbathing, sweating, and swimming. I step out of Firefly and watch the ducks paddle toward shore.

I am weightless.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category, and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.