August. Scorching summer heat, eclipsed sun. Leo season, no rain, little and not-so-little fires everywhere. Nature is blistered, the grass is seared, and the trees are parched. "The coldest summer of the rest of our lives," the scientists say, and I can't help but release a sigh of annoyance. And then a sad sigh of acceptance follows, because there's no greenery around me anymore — only dust and sand. It's not how it used to be. And so, change is around the corner, yet again.
I know autumn is coming — I see it, but I don't feel it. Something has forever-changed, and is ending. Something never changes, but I want it to. Something is approaching slowly, and I can feel it, but the air around me is still sizzling. I'm scared I'm dried out. The moments I experience day by day are so tender, so delicate — maybe because I know the new chapter is here, standing right under the arch I've been decorating with blooming flowers ever since spring sprung.
And if the arch is the threshold for the next chapter, that's where the present and the past collide, and intertwine. When I think of past Augusts, I think of cantaloupes. Or, as we call them in Hungarian, "yellow melons." Because they are, indeed, yellow — and we Hungarians just love to be straightforward and no-bullshit when it comes to, well, everything, so naming something exactly what it is is just our thing. So: yellow melons, and red watermelons. Cantaloupes were my dad's; watermelons, my mom's. Maybe that's why August always tastes like both — like the two of them, and a table someone else set. Younger-me on the porch, in woven armchairs, and in the backyard, in stained plastic garden chairs under the setting sun. Younger-me in the garden, picking whatever freshly grown vegetable or fruit I could lay my eyes on — greedy in a way only a child can be, wanting to taste and experience, just enjoying the moment, and the abundance of nature. Everything warm from the sun, everything seemingly limitless and infinite. Everything perfect, just for a few seconds. Younger-me fearing September and the upcoming school year; now-me fearing the next chapter, god-knows-why. I'm scared I'm greedy in a not-so-innocent way, and that what's left of the past is only the setting suns. No one's cutting up fruit for me anymore, and I have to buy my own yellow melon, if I want one. Nothing is at arm's reach anymore.
In alchemical studies, everything is either decaying or ripening — these are the only two options. And so I'm thinking: what about this next chapter? Summer should be about ripening, but what if I'm decaying? How will I know? Will I know in the autumn — will there be a harvest, or will I fall to the ground, overripe, unwanted by anyone? Can I pick myself up while I'm still hanging on a branch, while I'm still connected to my roots, to the universe? I'd like to.
It's August, but I'm already walking on fallen leaves, dropped by the trees out of survival — and that's another sigh of relief, and a sigh of frustration, because what now? I used to know who I was. I used to know my name and myself; the me who exists, the one everyone around me knew too. But I feel like that's not me anymore. That's an old story, one of the millions I've experienced in my 36 years, and maybe it's time to close not just the chapter, but the whole novel. Not to end it — but to begin a new one. A new one, with a new-me. And in the new one, I will write my own name in hearts. In the new one, I will be innocent again. And in this new story, only I will know my real name. Maybe now is the cliffhanger, and now is the start of the new tale — but I don't want anyone around me to know this anymore. Because it doesn't matter. And the rest is history, and the rest is a tragedy — or not. Glass marbles and pebbles no longer weigh down my pockets; I'm able to carry them now.
My garden is bountiful, in a way that only I can see. Everything is burning from the sun, but I'm not scared of being under it — even if I ripen to a point of no return. I let myself become too soft, too mushy, and I don't have to be sweet, and I don't have to look perfect. Every moment in me is fragile, but I let them be.
The insides of red and yellow melons turned to syrupy-sweet memories; the chairs and tables faded to memoirs. This was the coldest summer for the rest of my life, and I'm still attached to my stem and roots, and I believe the universe will nurture me, even if no one harvests me. Then-me, full of hope; now-me, full of sun; new-me… the saga is just beginning. But I have a feeling she'll have a lot to tell.
