When figs are in season,
It always remind me of time.
“It’s already that time of year,
I get to indulge in such deliciousness”
Only sweet a few months a year and then I get a little sad for just a sliver of a moment before settling down to the normalcy of figless months.
It is only when figs come back do I remember that I must be older because I’ve already moved through a year and I recall so many moments munching on a bowl full of half cut figs,
Or snacking down a ziplock bag full of dehydrated figs that remind me of pockets of warm jam in my mouth,
Or homemade jam that pops when I chew my sandwiches because of the seeds.
How many seasons passed already, and why does the time between get shorter and shorter?
But today I scrolled across a picture of a beautiful pink centered plate of figs that felt sinful at how sensual the nostalgia feels,
And I wonder how many fig seasons have passed?
Because for the first time I’m yearning for them,
Even though I feel that it means another season passing where my youth is just a little further from my grasp,
Though that will not keep me from smiling when I take my first bite into a ripe sweet fig.