end of summer

Days spent sealing Summer's colours away in jars so that I can open them if I lose my confidence again. Five small jars of pickled cherries. Two small jars of cherry jam. Five small jars of blackberry jam (a miracle, as blackberries were so scarce this year). Six large jars of strawberry jam (strawberries taste cheerful). Two large jars of pickled strawberries. Four large jars of peach jam. Four large jars and one small jar of spiced peaches. (One large glass and two small glasses of peach soda made with the rest of the syrup.) Two large jars of pickled carrots (they're autumnal, but are really a summer vegetable). Two large jars and one small jar of apricot jam. One large jar of raspberry jam.

Days spent eating sweets. Parfaits made from strawberry ice cream and crumbled chocolate-curry cake and jams from the jars which didn't seal properly and vanilla mousse and whichever fruits I had at the time. Real waffles made with yeast and eaten with jam and treacle and strawberries. I ate them for meals sometimes, 'I won't tell if you don't,' Schwester whispered in childish mischief as I pretended she was there. She would be the one I'd tell. Days spent working and making things with my hands to be a little closer to the place I want to go. Days spent wandering inside of stories, searching them for answers to my questions (stories hold more answers than anything else), but really wandering in them because I love stories.

Days spent wondering. Wondering if the ocean connects or separates and deciding that it must connect, mustn't it? Wondering why fire and water (both necessary for Life) kill the tiny beings around the glass jars when I seal them away, realising that, perhaps, it is to protect the Life inside of the jar, to allow it to sleep before waking. Wondering about the time between when Summer (with all of her brightness) leaves and when Autumn arrives, why it isn't its own season (it is long enough, after all), wishing that that time never existed. Remembering that the time between those two seasons was when I first discovered the Magic, the time when the Magic was much more than an ordinary thing which most of the world simply refuses to see, when something began to call to me for the first time. Remembering when I first read fairy-tales. Remembering not to forget.

Days spent letting the feelings and stories wait inside of me until they join together into words I can write. Days spent with the hope that my words will reach.

Postscript: I've recently found out that my the photos I lost are not lost after all.