I Swear It’s Not Too Late

The older I get, the more I associate the passing of time with the cycle of the moon and which fruits are in season. It started as a uncomfortable musing in my 30s when I picked a late summer fig from my aunt’s tree. It was already jam, cooked in the pressure cooker of California’s Great Central Valley. I bit into it, piercing the sun-tanned skin with my teeth, my lips slurping the gooey center, seeds popping like fireworks in my mouth, breathing deeply through my nose, closing my eyes and savoring that scalding summer moment. I pulled myself back to Earth.

What if this is the last fig I ever eat?

Will the world end before the next wasp finds its way into the blossom end of an unripe fig?

Will I survive another three seasons on this planet to be blessed by this miracle of nature?

What if I don’t?

How will I explain myself to my higher power when they ask if I lived my life completely?

Did I eat enough figs?

Is it ever enough?

We’ve come to August in Athens. The apricots, once the coquettish darlings of the farmers’ market are now mealy and still have a yellowish-green tinge, the telltale sign that Mas and Nikiko taught me means the fruit is not yet ready to be plucked from its branch. They made the journey from the field to the market picked before their prime so the farmers can move on to the next harvest and so the fruit is not wasted. But what if that last stone fruit I squished between my tongue and the roof of my mouth was the last?

Do I reach for a lackluster fruit to quell the sense of dread, or will the abysmal bite be worse than saying goodbye to something you loved when it was at its very best?

The days grow shorter and the darkness grows longer and I’ll ask myself the same thing about the luscious, crisp watermelon I gorged myself on for the last three months. I will reminisce longingly of the hundreds of unctuous tomatoes and crunchy cucumbers that sustained me when it was so hot all I could eat was xoriatiki and wonder about the cruelty of seasons.

And there will come a time when it will be the last peach the last fresh ear of sweet corn the last snappy autumn grape the last new moon.

And will I have succeeded in my journey?

Will I know what it was to be truly satisfied?

How many seasons of nectarines did live?

Could I have been more respectful to the dozens of varieties of apples that were the crown jewels in the bleakness of the northeaster winter?

Could I possibly remember every pomegranate I cracked and cleaned?