Ghost Robots and Wicked Chowdah

September is Septem. Seven. A month that never got renamed after Julius and Augustus stamped their names all over summer. September just kept a number and kept on working. No god, no emperor, no monument. A tireless warrior, toiling away, always in motion, doing its job.

51 treadmill miles, unless we start counting the moving sidewalks in airports. An overproduction of produce from the garden. 8 new Beli spots. Picked up and set down 268,000 pounds. The weights go back to where I found them, but I’m in a new place. Made up for being grounded last month with 5,000 miles in the air. Triple digit temperatures in Austin. 22 years of marriage, my longest streak yet.

Wheels up, wheels down, gate changed, gate changed again, minor delay, rinse, repeat. Wore the Game Time jersey, huddled up with a few hundred teammates, and led a sports campaign as a dude who still doesn't know what 'laces out' means. I've never thrown a spiral in my life. Now I'm quarterbacking a campaign. Fake it till you make the playoffs I guess.

Austin turned up the broiler. The sun clocked in early and stayed late, like it had a personal vendetta against gingers. It was winning. A ghost robot chauffeured me through those hot streets. A/C full blast, no driver, no small talk, no soul. I loved it. This is where I want AI to revolutionize my life. I might start tipping the robots.

Told a room full of builders that a good CMO is just a boardroom Ariana Grande: I see it, I like it, I want it, I got it.

All work and no play makes for a dull boy. Celebrated my marriage over a dinner that doesn’t go on the expense report. I baked sourdough, zucchini bread, and hamburger buns; while my cats made biscuits. Went to Putt-Shack with the work squad, where I discovered my mini-golf game has not improved since roughly age nine. An open house toasting fifty years of the company. None of this goes on my resume. The best stuff we do never does.

Back to Boston for wicked awesome chowdah. I've learned enough self-restraint to eat significantly fewer stadium hot dogs, and the service was slow enough to enforce it. A wrong turn made my 5k a 7k. Feet pounding the ground of a city running for four centuries. Legs burning, ego shrinking, mind melting, until you’re just a body in motion under an old, indifferent sky.

September's also the month I lost Nuno. Six years ago. Grief did its work and has mostly moved on. What's left is enough love to celebrate. Her name is memorialized on the Cat Welfare Association’s Nuno Guardian Angel fund. So that other cats can get the same chance she got. Look how the stars shine for you, Nuno.

September didn’t get a marble statue like the other months. It grinds away, head down. Taking a beat to look at the stars and how they shine for someone special. The toil and a tribute braided into a bow I’ll call September.