After the cherry blossoms disappeared, a certain malaise lingered, a feeling of being
between seasons. Every few days, the brief revving of a lawnmower could be heard,
as if someone were simply testing the engine. In the produce aisle, tomatoes still held
the strange waxy pallor of winter, and - as if to rekindle the spirits of the shoppers -
boxes of California strawberries had been placed strategically between rows of
demoralized greens. We were all trying to get somewhere, such was our impatience -
no, our disdain - for this ellipses of waiting. Our mouths were watering for change.
Later, we’d try, and fail, to remember what were doing in the weeks before
summer sank its syrupy teeth in and fall came tumbling after. We’d say, “It’s all
going by too fast” as beneath our feet, the soil churned every loss into gold.