The signs are all here. Leaves are beginning to change colour, some outliers already scarlet and gold. Crickets are louder. The breeze is cooler. Fields are harvested. Daisies are long gone, the Queen Anne’s lace is curling back over its centre and turning brown, the virginia creeper covering the telephone pole and around Mike’s barn is turning a red the colour of an apple in sunshine. The air smells different. The hummingbirds are gone.
I had thought that putting in a garden might help to slow the passage of days a bit, mark them in such a way that they would be like the long slow summers on Highland Road, telling time by what is ripe when.
It didn’t work very well. We missed strawberries, cherries, raspberries completely. It felt like we looked away for a weekend, and the tomatoes fell and sprawled over the ground, competing for space with the cucumbers. Time marched on as fast as always.
But I can still get in some hammock time. I’ve rolled it out from under the magnolia and the sun is hot on my legs and feet. There’s a cicadas in the ash and pine trees, drowning out the crickets, and an enormous honey bee just buzzed past.
It’s all a very perfect reminder to be in the present.