#writing 2 - fig jam
Slowly counting grains of sand.
Sunshine streams past my back and onto the wood of the table, where even strangers sit. I sip green juice, fill with moisture, to soften where hard thoughts have knotted tissue. A sunny spot makes me feel like a melting marshmallow.
The table is inviting as it sweeps into the space of the cafe'. A gentleman sits where my gaze cannot help but fall. He sips espresso coffee, which I don't dare ask the taste. He is fixed on the newspaper page under his nose.
I eat my sourdough toast and fig jam. Far from the idyllic dream of a fig tree in the "backyard."
But somewhere, I do have one. The rising scent of the leaves of the fig tree sends me to lands that my unconscious has seen to conserving, not forgetting, not even for an instant. With the figs that the tree produces, rather than jam making, I prefer bottling. When its time to open a jar in cooler months, I enjoy juicy fruit.
But a cafe' in a sunny street, in the heart of Melbourne, with sourdough bread and fig jam, somehow sports of the "exotic."
The delight of a fruit, like the humble, Mediterranean fig is not altogether lost.
Silvana
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I eat my sourdough toast and fig jam. Far from the idyllic dream of a fig tree in the "backyard."
But somewhere, I do have one. The rising scent of the leaves of the fig tree sends me to lands that my unconscious has seen to conserving, not forgetting, not even for an instant. With the figs that the tree produces, rather than jam making, I prefer bottling. When its time to open a jar in cooler months, I enjoy juicy fruit.
But a cafe' in a sunny street, in the heart of Melbourne, with sourdough bread and fig jam, somehow sports of the "exotic."
The delight of a fruit, like the humble, Mediterranean fig is not altogether lost.
Silvana
Follow me by entering your e-mail in the space on the right of this blog. Contribute to an independent fund that supports this blog - go here.