My husband explains to me, again, how small talk is emp/f/phatic communion (I always get the word wrong.) So every few weeks, especially if I’ve had caffeine, I give it a try, and just the other morning, the cashier at the Co-op played along.
“We brought the ice packs because it’s so warm out,” I joked, as she rang up our groceries.
“I know,” she said, “It was really cold at our house this morning.”
“39, at ours,” I added, and then we both spoke at once, so “communed” had we become, with the same beginning sound too, except that what came after her “B,” was: BEAUTIFUL; and what came after mine: BRUTAL.
Waking to 39 degrees and not being among those who celebrate such disregard for gardens (and summer souls), I meditate on this guy, who was waiting for someone at the farmers market on Saturday morning, leaning shyly, I thought, against the compost with his bouquet, while l just as shyly asked if I could photograph him before escaping the crowds.
I’m not much of a boater, but seeing them on the road in August is like seeing a hearse drive through town, carrying summer.
45 after 44 has been so excruciating that I can barely think about 44. But for this, I’ll make an exception:
His & Michelle’s summer playlist:
Goldfinches in the cherry tree
Last light on the birches
Bread salad with basil & heirloom tomatoes on the table
My mother, my grandmothers, my great grandmother…
About this time of year, the chaff is separated from the wheat, and those who delight in the sudden plummet of heat, without regard for the life of tomatoes and basil, are thus made apparent; just as 45 made apparent so many things, which is what I thinking as I biked up to the farmstand for Sunday morning scones, shivering; And while my disdain for their disloyalty to summer may not be as strong as my disdain, say, for those who (still) champion 45, they had that very morning, chilled and cloud covered as it was, come alarmingly close, particularly with the forecast of 39.
Summer gratitude collage—an antidote—not so much to grief, which is necessary & fruitful—but to pissy attitudes of not enough (my own.)