Log0041 | Clutching Seasons
A crib lay empty, crisp clean perfectly folded sheets. The stroller and rattle and collection of books all yet to be used, were waiting. A 40 week pregnant wife wanted nothing more than a few pounds of peaches and the five free hours to turn them to pie. She, clutching to ending seasons, walked through the farmers market, hopeful.
Up until this point our life together had been free from constraints and responsibilities. The season of free time and travel and selfish pursuits of pleasure and prestige was abundant. The summer that you could live in forever if you chose, but once you decided to leave it, this strange season would not cycle back until the birds left their nests.
Our goal was peaches. Today was the day. All summer my wife had hung to the idea of making this pie. Every summer, at some point or another she would take the time to roll the dough and slowly turn peaches to pie. But this year, every week was never quite right; always a reason, an excuse, another thing to bake, another let’s eat them fresh with yoghurt and honey.
So we strolled through the market, 40 weeks through, and when we saw not a single peach we knew. We knew we were clutching at seasons, changing seasons. We knew that we were trying to hang on to all that we wanted, all at once. Nothing could be done about it, this season was closing.
Instead, forced to move on, we left carrying a bag full of apples, crisp fresh new apples. As we were walking out, the last vendor in the back corner (whom we had bought from for years and whose name I could never recall), told us to wait. He quickly trimmed and arranged a bunch of flowers - eucalyptus, birds of paradise - for us, and for the new baby he said.
He, like all the other vendors, was excited for our new season. A new customer, a team of three, responsibilities and requirements. A new mouth to feed and, of course, eventually the apples and apple sauce to do it.