Yesterday at 1: 30 in the afternoon, I ate the last fig. Not the last in the basket. It was the very last, the final fig of the season. As I pulled apart the lime green peel with my thumbs, the pulpy heart seemed more ruby red than usual; it was an explosion of color, a sensuous shape fitting in the hand so perfectly, and a joyous mouthful of hot sunny days.
And that’s the thing, you see. That last bite of fig means it’s over. Summer is gone –this year the line of demarcation between seasons was abrupt and I wasn’t ready. One day it was 80 degrees, then came the first rain. When the sun came out, the temperature was only 60, where it stayed for awhile before inching back up a little.
Today is October 3. It's a simply gorgeous fall day, with blue skies, bright sun and a light breeze. I’ve put aside my broken heart and turned my attention to the olives, which are almost fully plump. In six weeks, we will pick them, press them, and end the year with jugs of thick green oil so demanding of my attention that the figs will only be a fond memory until I fall in love with them again next year.
copyright Sharri Whiting 2008
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