smells of nostalgia
This is the time of year where everything starts to end. The days are getting shorter, the sun doesn’t get quite so high up in the sky, the breeze feels cool and carries a hint of death. The cicadas are quiet. Birds know, trees know, the bugs and the flowers do too.
Something slows in me, the passing of time is different. I want to eat rich foods and linger on street corners. I walk more slowly and as the wind gathers up my hair and blows it here and there I stop to enjoy the moment. There is no urgency to that which approaches and I find myself distracted by the desire to sit and stare at the sky for hours.
The apples have arrived. My beloved blackberries – ripe with the summer sun – are replaced with heartier fruits that will last us into the winter. I love apples, but they do not taste of sunshine and summer rain like the berries do.
I ate turkey and mashed potatoes last week, it was a rainy day and the warmth of these foods reminded me of sunday dinners (served at noon) at my grandmother’s house. I walked very slowly, through the rain, when that lunch was over.
