Summer in Details: Fragments of Time

August crept up on me, confusing me into thinking it was autumn. The wind started blowing with the new purpose of easing the transition. I find that I can breathe again.

Every day I notice time slipping away. Things I thought I had months of waiting for, passing by in a breeze. Sometimes that passing of time lies heavy on my chest, choking me with the sense of urgency. Sometimes, I sit back and enjoy watching everything being set in motion.

That’s the sea I’m swimming in this summer. The waves are the foamy cloud of my emotion. One instant imitating a storm, the other, gently embracing every moment.

Sitting with the weight of a year passed, I bite into a peach, and as I trail the juice from my hand to my elbow, I try to ground myself. My hands are sticky, and I wipe them on my shirt, leaving a blotchy stain on my ribs.

Everything is changing and growing all the time, like my basil, full of sprouts. I bought it in a store the other day, and it’s thriving. I would need to repot it soon.

I’m sitting on cold stone stairs, my knees to my chest, and I look at every little purple vein that pops up from under my skin. Another bruise shows up on my shin, and there’s a mosquito bite on my ankle. It made it swell.

I like to walk barefoot in summer, so much so that I forget to bring my shoes when I’m going somewhere. The skin on my feet is dry and immune to little pebbles I step on. I don’t mind.

Beauty is in details. Everything most beautiful about this life can be found in the little things, like how I already have calluses from wearing my grandma’s ring, or how my tattoos have turned just slightly green, or, as I like to say, worn. I think that’s beautiful, because it’s my loved body.

The sun really kissed my skin this summer. I’ve learned to embrace that. I’ve not yet learned to embrace every part of myself. It takes time. I’m okay with that.

I made a pie earlier. It’s still in the oven. The smell of orange reached my mom in our front yard. Whenever I’m in the kitchen, she’s drawn to me like under a spell, peeking to see what I made.

45 minutes have passed. The clock on my oven is buzzing. The pie is really, so I’ll head downstairs now.

Until next time