6/14/15

I’m in that time zone of nostalgia, between the end of something and the beginning of something else. You could say I’m on the cusp of adulthood realizing things are about to change, and I should probably hold onto these simple, at times mundane moments. I’m sitting in the backyard, the sound of crickets, birds, leaves against leaves enveloping me, eating deep red Michigan strawberries, whose fate would have it that they ripened a few weeks before prime berry season, giving them a slight tartness that can only be described as being early to a spectacle you didn’t know was going to happen. I’ve eaten half a flimsy, wooden box full — a charming little box whose color flows seamlessly with the color of the blanket I rest on. As I eat them, I throw the bottomless remnants under the bird feeder, hoping a passing squirrel will enjoy their rich summer taste as I have. Or at least the flies, ungrateful bastards, will like them. As I throw the strawberries, their natural juices pinwheel out of them, arching the eaten berry’s path. Finn chases after them, curious. My ankles itch from mosquitos. I realize these are the moments I’ll remember. Not because Finn will one day pass or we will one day move from this peaceful spot on the Earth. But because, in the end, life is but a series of stills, made into a series of moments, made into one complete production. And when we make our final productions we tend to leave out these in-betweens that got us there. I think the moments I’ll remember are these middle points, where the world briefly allowed me to float aimlessly through its net. The Robbins fighting. My dog’s open and loving gaze. Juice from berries dripping down my fingers. Wiping bugs from my computer screen.