It is the hottest day in September, and I’m heading toward the sea. Spring roses and strawberries have come and gone, their sweetness only remembered by this grainy photo of strawberry-rose syrup.
I woke up this morning and went to go put on my memories, but they were all in the washing machine and there was nothing to wear. With each churn of the machine, the colors bled and turned to grey.
This May tabbouleh was made with beets, pistachios, and feta. I put wildflowers in a Coke can as the sun turned black in the mid-afternoon.
There was a season of spicy arugula and discovery.
We pan-fried gnocchi, panned for gold, and planned a small town life.
The colors of summer have passed, and even tomatoes are fading now, which I never had a chance with.
The heightened fire of spirit that thrives on a beautiful mixture of confidence and naiveté fades gracelessly into a phlegmatic fall of greys and age.
The summer is gone; the swamp is back.
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