Much like our misspent youth, we expect summer to last forever. The end of the hot season is, in some ways, the year’s most depressing.

There are few words as depressing as “back to school” even when the school days have been left far, far behind. The end of summer reminds many of us of “The Ed Sullivan Show,” in spades.

When the Sullivan show ended on Sunday at 9 p.m., it was time to get ready for school the next day and think about all of that weekend homework that had been left untouched. The chest was filled with a cold, empty feeling.

The last nights of summer have been invaded by that familiar chill in the air. It is time to close those windows that have been agape sine July, begging for a breeze to cool the house and allow at least some sleep. We are looking around the house for those sweat shirts and Polartecs that have hung on a hook since June.

We may not be doing it quite yet, but we are at least planning to close the camp, haul in the canoe and hoist the sailboat back to its winter home in the boatyard.

The end of summer is a petit mort, a small death.

We expected to do so much more. More camping, more canoe trips, more swimming, more sailing, more outdoor barbecue dinners with friends. We spend the entire winter and spring planning for the 14 weekends, raising expectations to an impossible level.

The Fourth of July fireworks set the pace for the entire summer season. We look forward to them for far too long, we expect far too much and they end much too soon.

Is that all there is?

Some of us have always equated winter with death. Think of the subzero winds howling through the trees. Think off all those clothes we have to wear. Think sleet. We simply do not have the time to die in the summer. There is too much to do.

The anticipation of winter is far worse than winter itself. Usually December is mild and we don’t notice the cold until around Christmas. Then there is January and the football playoffs and (God willing) another appearance by the beloved champion New England Patriots. Winter never really begins until after the Super Bowl. That usually consumes most of January.

That leaves February.

There is nothing we can really do about February but move to Florida. February is the longest month. Even the sound of the word makes us cold. Somehow we load up the wood stove, get through it, bury the dead (both real and imagined) and move on to March.

March is the rebirth month. First of all, we have made it through winter once again and we have St. Patrick’s Day to prove it. Second, the bane of our New England existence, the cursed Boston Red Sox, return to Florida and to our battered hearts.

It is an indicator of our desperation that one of the certain signs of rebirth comes from a baseball team that has crushed us since 1918.

Then we start all over again, overplanning for the 14 glorious weekends of summer.

Wait until next year.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.