I know before I hear her singing coming from the kitchen. My eyes are wide open and waiting. The morning is almost upon us, night subsiding slowly, day slipping in on us. My mother and I are not deterred by the chill that has set in. It’s time to pick the last of the fruit lingering in the trees surrounding the garden. To scrape through the already ravaged field rows for rejected plum tomatoes, really hot peppers, zucchini, and eggplant before the first hard frost.
Today we search through the drying plants, their stalks bowing onto the ground in solemn acceptance of their end. We gather the vegetables initially left behind because of imperfections and any late ripening ones sprouting out of nowhere. We pick bruised fruit hiding within changing leaves. Later, with ancient paring knives, to cut out the dark blotches, slice softened pears into glasses of homemade wine and make pie with spotted apples.
The last of these days have turned sharp and crisp. Our hands are wrinkly from searching among the cold dampness. We each grab a handle of the weather beaten bushel basket slowly making our methodical rounds. This is my favorite time because it’s our time. For such joy it brings to my mother whose eyes sparkle upon finding hidden zucchini. A treasure to be pan-fried with scrambled eggs and onions mounded upon crusty bread and draped with long hots for a jubilant lunch.
The smell of rich soil soaked with a heavy rain fills me with a headiness I can’t explain. The early sun tingling my runny nose signals it’s time for us to rest and sit on the back porch. To Wait for, watch as curling leaves succumb to the end of days, the last of Fall. Her calloused hands lovingly examine our overflowing basket. Settling in, at peace, she rocks and hums a song carried with a few sporadic words of her choosing. A seeming mystical chant calling upon the day to rise.
My mother remains there, in the Autumn garden, calling me to come see what she has collected, her proud bounty. A much used kitchen towel over one shoulder, a bushel basket overflowing with dirty vegetables at her feet. Grinning through the glistening light her olive cheeks reflect its rays. Her tattered apron, many times repaired, softened by the years,its pockets bulging with soggy pears and twisted apples. These brilliant days swim back to me as the ever cooling air catches in my throat. My eyes close and a longing sweeps over me.
