The oily residue of heavy cream coats my lips. I rub them together, spreading evenly. I polish off the dregs of collagen-laced coffee because I have to replace what I’m losing to gravity. A small effort in a losing battle that I don’t really care that much about. Cholesterol levels would say nix the cream but dopamine levels say over my dead body—you can pry it from my cold, dead hands.
I pluck droopy figs dripping with sap. The ants scatter, their sweet feast over. I oiled them this year to expedite ripening. A little olive oil dotted on the eye will trap ethylene gas and speed things up. I still wonder if there is time enough to turn before a hard frost sends them into dormancy. What a waste that would be. I’ll have to wrap them in burlap before winter. Once it arrives with its damage, it can set the trees back causing them to start from scratch. This leaves little time and energy for setting fruit. I scoff at my efforts to work against time to bring about fullness. Plump figs. Plump lips. Maybe I’ll wrap myself this winter, too. Try to preserve what might otherwise be taken out by the brute of cold.
With fall finally here the days are ending sooner. Not as much energy for producing once the blinds are drawn and the lamps are lit. I’d rather simmer like the cinnamon on the stovetop. Thicken up my thinning skin like my fig jam bubbling in the saucer. Draw in and preserve for the shortest of days. And all while longing for more time. To somehow set back a month or two for the finishing off of the last season. How I seldom feel ready for what’s inevitable with time. Another scoff for the longer days I wished ahead and away when I was told I’d miss them.
So maybe I’ll just stew like my crockpot that has a hairline crack that won’t hold much longer. Wrap myself in the comfort of having any time left at all. That I get to sip and savor when life would have me gulp it from a firehose. Let it fly by while I marvel at twirling leaves like tiny tornadoes. Let it whip over me as I cling tighter to what could be taken out by fierce conditions. I see you moving on, time, despite my futile protest. I’ll draw in all that I can while my soul prepares to winter again.
