Summer Mornings

I met a friend for coffee this morning: mine was a cappuccino with whole milk, hers a cappuccino with miso caramel. It was quiet at 7:15, just after opening. We chose a table in the corner. I faced the side of the cafe and she the tree-lined window. We’d been colleagues, but have now become friends. We laugh. We tear up. We share moments of our lives that we didn’t know about each other when I was a volunteer at her school, and she, my supervisor. We ask each other questions like what we would like to do next, or after this, or some day. My response was to write. She made me promise I would.

When I got home, I put on my white sneakers, leashed-up Franklin, and headed out the door. The weather was cooler than most days this summer and we moved at a quick pace. Coming up the long hill, I saw Tom walking out to his car and he stopped to chat. He pointed to the tree whose branches had grown over his sidewalk, causing walkers to step into the road to pass by.

“I’ll be cutting that branch down when the fruit ripens. I don’t want the town to come and tell me I’m blocking the sidewalk. Here, pick some. Take that one over there, too.”

“Are they peaches, Tom?”

“Nectarines. They’re in the peach family, though. Here’s the figs. You know, the house near you, they have a fig tree. On the right.”

“I know! I have a fig tree, too, in the back.”

“What? Who died?”

“Nobody died.”

“Did you say somebody died?”

“No, Tom.”

Tom wears a black ski cap, even in summer. He started gardening when he came to this country from Italy. He prefers to grow food instead of grass. One of his neighbors is not happy that he planted three nectarine trees near her property line.

“She’s worried they will grow over onto her property. So what? They grow over, you just cut them. What’s the big deal?”

He asked if I wanted to see the back garden, and led me down the driveway and around the house. He told me to wait while he went inside to get a gathering basket and a white bag. Every inch of space had a plant. I noticed gourds and tomatoes and grapes. Tom told me he was angry with the birds for eating the grapes; he’ll have to wait another year now to make wine.

He began to cut bok choy leaves and asked how I cook it. I said I sauté it. He said that’s the best way. He directed me to put the nectarines into the white bag along with the fig I picked for Joe. (I had already eaten one.) He laid the bok choy on top, directing me to clean it good as there was a lot of dirt in there, and topped it off with basil, insisting that I smell it first. He added that the next time he’d give me some mint.

It’s getting later in the summer and lots of things are overgrown. Some bushes and tall weeds block the new stop sign at the corner. Most people only slow down and keep going. I notice the crepe myrtles blooming around town. The petals fall to the ground and cover the grass in crimson. Along my street, I spotted some wild raspberries and remembered the blackberries that grew near the pond in my childhood neighborhood. I imagine the birds are happy for such a treat.

I am distracted thinking of my son flying to another country to start a new job—a one-year position. The emotions are mixed as I am excited for him, and also sad at the distance. I will miss him. My granddaughter turned three this week. Her utter joy over her birthday brings me to tears. Her excitement when unwrapping gifts, and asking, “Ohhh…what is it?” makes my heart want to explode.

Change of seasons, new growth, loss, wonder at what’s ahead. I marvel at how things change so quickly, and at the same time, remain the same. New jobs. Dreams. Some day. Wonder. What will I do next?

Sometimes it’s all so big, that I slow it down and simply sip my cappuccino. Or walk my big yellow dog.