The first weekend of summer and just about every other one, the giant fridge in our island home served as a symbol of bouncy and potential. The promise of meals made with friends; the promise of nourishing souls and minds; the promise of not feeling hungry in the midst of a new community.
We leave tomorrow and our fridge is sparse. One lemon remains, half a lime (the rest plunged into gin and tonics), there might be one egg, a bit of Parmesan, the heel of bread (chilled so as not to tempt the mouse). We finished jars of capers and bags of tortillas's; we ate cabbages and a field of greens. We made the same five things repeatedly for different groups and just like that.. the promise of summer is gone. There is a taste of blackberry cobbler left; a midnight snack for me perhaps on the last tonight.
We take home of stories of watching the blackberries ripen and noticing our own selves change to. The first berries are sour, but we eat them anyway wincing on the bite these beauties give us. Then the sun shines for a a few more days. Heat entices the snake out onto the path and soon the plump fruit falls into our hands when we reach for it. Now we spit out the sour ones. We've tasted far better and we can't go back. Milo and I filled the 32 ounce water bottle with berries, we suffered tiny splinters and scratches and we walked up the hill with purple mouths and fingertips and full bellies. We called ourselves bears as we cooked salmon and ate outside.
The promises of summer are stories and memories now.
The neighbours came back for Sunday dinner last night each couple of box of pizza in one hand and bottle of wine in the other. We laughed, I didn't sit next to or even near Milo and the five sets of parents with much older children watched, played with and loved my child. Maybe this isn't something I put on my list 'find loving community for my son', instead I imagined art projects and forest walks. But I set us up for love and we found it and it found us too. Found us under a sky that will go dark tomorrow, In a world that seems to be on fire.
We will leave tomorrow and return to a different, familiar version of ourselves. What will we take with us? Just a longing to return or maybe just a beach stone in our pocket to touch when the city seems too big.
Inspired by "Testimonial" by Rita Dove