After much deliberation over cloud positions, certain times of day, or who between the two will find a wasp, this morning we can say it’s raining figs.
Each purple droplet thumping at the earth, pitched like pennies on an empty bed.
But not simply a single or duo of drupes. Not just those tender, ragged remnants, losing their grip with a nudge of wind.
But more than enough to fill a horse’s hunger. More than last season, naturally, when we had exactly none. A casualty of robins and squirrels and a way-too-cool September.
It’s forty figs or so today, excluding ours, which could go to every neighbor on our street. Except the ones next door, who are allergic. Or the couple diagonally across the street, who both think figs taste like white sugar, never having actually tasted figs before. Or the concert cellist at the bottom of the hill, who never comes to her door. I sometimes think that she can teleport, because her car is either there or gone, but never coming or going, never really on its way somewhere. You would be forgiven for considering that she might not actually exist at all.
Everyone else is good to go, and some appear surprised, since finding paper bags at doorsteps, not on fire, or full of something other than figs, is, by most accounts, still a surprise.
One neighbor will make pastries. So he usually gets the first, and the most, and, admittedly, the biggest of the bunch. Everybody else is set to get about the same: five or six, picked for relative dimensions, in wax paper, cradled in a faded scarlet paper bag.
Each fig released feels like we, too, are falling. From a low arc of tender, dusty arms, thumping at the earth. Coming together, then dividing ourselves, and given to a dozen other human appetites.
And this can be the only way that I could ever share you with the world.