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. 

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