This Moment Now

I pass by a fig tree on my walk. The heavy branches reach over the sidewalk, making it easy to pluck the ripe fruit. Sometimes, I pop the succulent globes right into my mouth, but usually, I take a few home for breakfast. They’re beautiful when sliced. The soft white pith surrounds the rosy pulp laden with tiny seeds.

But before I get to the fig tree, before I get to anything really, I drink cups and cups of rich, dark coffee. These days, it’s boiled in a Moka pot and lightened with cream. I used to drink it black, even boasted about it, but my taste has changed. Sometimes, blunting the edges can make for a more pleasurable experience.

Interestingly, my own edges have been worn smooth. I don’t want to be hard anymore. I’m a lover, not a fighter.

***

You’ve got to live like you’re on vacation. — Paul Stanley

We drove four hours to Tybee Island, tunneling through Savannah’s majestic oaks shrouded in Spanish moss. Our bungalow was sun-washed and pleasant, very welcoming except for the ghastly koi pond. Air conditioners hummed in the windows, the bed soft, too soft, gently cradling us as we slept under the fan’s faint breeze.

There was no surf on the north end—the beach jarringly silent, absent from the comforting sound of waves. Fishermen cast lines into the still water and speared their rods in the sand. A child’s laughter skipped like a stone over the quiet sea.

We moved south the next day, the breakers crashing with a familiar roar. I dove into the surf and surfaced, tasting the salt on my lips. Immediately I felt a fierce undertow, a strong current pulling me out, out further than I wanted to go. I found my footing and pushed away from the riptide toward the shore, toward our bright umbrella, shading us from the high, hot sun.

Later, dolphins leaped in the tide while beachgoers squealed in delight.

***

The neighbors’ birch trees arch over our backyard like a cathedral. A not-so-distant train rumbles by, and every so often, spectral roosters crow from a vacant funeral home, declaring they’re still alive—although they’ve never been seen.

My dogs snooze on the deck while the hummingbirds siphon the feeder. The females ruthlessly spar, knocking one another off to get a turn, while the ruby-throated male takes his sweet time drinking the nectar.

It’s late July, but the light is changing, the shadows shift on the ground. In the delicious heat with the birds buzzing and the afternoon sun dappling my arms, this moment now is unlike this time yesterday. And it will be different tomorrow.

Once gone, the moment will never be again. That can be a comfort or a sorrow, but it’s always true.