Tonight my brother called and invited me to pick my own strawberries. His patch has reached the point where it’s scantily filled and not worth hiring labor to pick it. So, at dusk I went to take a look. He told me that the end of season berries are the best. He was telling the truth. I ate the first strawberry I picked and it was the best I had ever tasted. His fruit has the added benefit of being organic, making the flavor even more intense.
I picked until it grew so dark I couldn’t tell which ones were spoiled. Kim handed me a gallon of their wonderful milk, and told me where to find the fresh squash. On the walk home I found a few squash that still had their blossoms clinging. A friend told me one afternoon, after a particularly tough teaching day, to “go home and make yourself a squash casserole and pour yourself a glass of wine”. Sounded like a good southern girl’s prescription for a return to sanity.
The walk home was in the quickly deepening darkness. Looking up I noticed the lopsided waxing moon, crisp and white against the sky. At that moment the sky was light blue, but dusky, in that indescribable passage that is so hard to capture in a painting. By the time I crossed the road darkness had taken over. Strawberries and milk before bedtime. Windows open with their screens in place– healthy bug and frog sounds to attend my sleep.