July, July

I have acquired a small cold; an achey lethargy in my limbs, a stuffiness in my sinuses, a soreness in my throat. I should not be surprised, I suppose–Zack acquired something similar last week.

There is something especially frustrating about a summer cold. In the winter, when it is dark and rainy, it doesn’t feel like much of an imposition to lie on the sofa, drinking endless cups of hot tea with honey and lemon, scrolling through Pinterest infinity. In the summer, when the blue sky goes on for ages and the garden is crawling all over itself in its enthusiasm for growth, it’s much harder to accept the need to be still and recover. Even more so when you’ve got delicate broccoli rabe seedlings pushing up through the soil, ready to wither away unless they’re kept properly moist.

So I dragged my sniffley butt down to the garden, hoping that the alpine strawberries that went straight from the plant to my mouth would make this cold a short-lived one. I harvested a handful of cherry tomatoes and tucked them in a tiffin for Future Me to snack on, then deeply watered all the plots.

I was tired, afterwards. I had to take a nap.

But for a moment, in the dappled shade of the oak tree, water droplets bouncing off the tomato vines, I felt pretty good.

A cluster of cherry tomato blossoms in my garden. The stems holding the blossoms are covered in tiny hairs; the blossoms point towards the soil. The open blossoms are shaped like five pointed stars, or like spinning dancers twirling their skirts wide. Tiny green tomatoes are forming in the cluster already, the withered blossoms still attached to the end.

 

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July, July