As the shadows grow longer, we prepare to say goodbye to another summer. I’m already mourning the things I’ll miss. Okay, maybe mourn is too solemn a word since fall really is my favorite. But summer brings moments and flavors and aromas that only come during the hottest time of year. And those, I will miss with the ache of a lost object.
Like WATERMELON.
A wedge satiates me like no other fruit, takes me back to birthdays spent at the lake, summers in the back yard at the home place. Each thump of a plump melon comes with the possibility that yes, this one will be the best ever, vine-ripened in some picturesque Arkansas field of dreams, loaded into the back of an old pick-up, driven to a farmer’s market on the edge of the town square before making it’s way into my belly.
This year’s watermelons tasted as sweet as they should.
A few days ago, a sleepy little moth hitched a ride on John’s tennis shoe and came home with us after our morning walk. Actually, he wasn’t all that little. At first, he looked like a brittle brown leaf. Then, a butterfly? When I got a closer look, I knew he was a moth of some sort.
