Summer dwindles, seeps into autumn. Time is like a snake, it sheds sandy bathing suits for the scent of burning wood, a skin made from cold, damp earth. Before we left the forest this summer, I gathered figs, plucked from trees, and gently cradled the soft, warm flesh in my palm. I thought, a fig is a promise, a delicate kiss, a secret purple smile. So easily damaged, so soft, so welcoming; a fig seems to beat with a human heart. Split me in two, the fig whispered; just take a bite.
