On savoring a moment
a brief meditation on the cusp of late summer into fall
It’s 5:30, end of the day, and I’m carrying out kilim pillows and wool blankets for the Adirondack chairs set up in a circle outside. I’ve lit the candles and started a fire in the rusted metal chiminea with kiln-dried split logs we leave stacked in the garage. It’s a cloudy night and the air is heavy. Rain is threatening—I hold out an outstretched palm— but so far the mist simply hangs there. Crickets and evening insects chirp out a steady, high-pitched tone interrupted only by the rush-hour cars streaming along our busy street at the end of the driveway.
“Goose, come over,” I texted to my ex in the kitchen earlier while chopping the heirloom tomatoes from the farmers market and roasting a head of garlic in the oven.
“I have bruschetta and wine,” I said.
“Give me 10 minutes,” he texted back.
My spouse Janyce left a short time ago to grab another bottle of red. Now the kitchen smells of garlic and my hands are juiced with tomato. I rip off basil leaves and stir them into the bowl. Needs salt.
It’s a Friday night, the work week is done, and I’m savoring this fleeting September night, still hanging on to summer, the promise of one last sunny hot weekend before us. This is by far my favorite season. Maybe because it’s so short and the day is framed by elongated aching shadows stretched onto the green expanse of what may be our last mown lawn before the leaves arrive.
I look out the window, past the gaudy farmer’s market flowers that overflow the vase on the kitchen table. I stuffed them into it earlier in the day, crowding out the bright orange marigolds I picked up at a farm stand last week.
Jim pulls his car into the driveway and I leave the kitchen to meet him, passing through the garage, carrying three wine glasses in my hand.
Soon Janyce pulls her jeep into the driveway and walks over to grab a chair with us, joining the conversation. Woodchucks and snakeskins, disc golfing and trips to the art museums in Washington DC. Oh, and that time early one morning right at Dacey field down the road from us, when a barred owl silently watched Jim throw a practice round, sitting posture perfect from a low branch and blending right in.
“You gotta see this,” says Jim, pulling out his phone. We gather around in the waning light of dusk, the fire still burning and crackling.
“Oh my god, there he is!” I say after a few minutes of expanding the size of the photo with my fingers and scanning the image.
There he is.
