I needed to dig. I needed something to harvest.
I needed proof that I'd done SOMETHING with my summer.
The warm weather broke records. The sun on my straw hat deluded me into thinking that it was summer, that somehow the season had not passed in a blur, I'd only imagined it had.
But the garden didn't lie. The pale and broken stalks of corn, the fallen leaves, the friable earth; the garden was tired.
Looking at it, I wondered why I maintain this little patch of dirt that has no hope of actually feeding my family beyond a few summer treats. My dreams are so much bigger. But in this season they've grown friable too.
So I dug. I unearthed potatoes as big as my fist. I pulled up the last Scarlet Nantes carrots, their spicy perfume rising from dark holes. I tucked in the parsnips to sweeten over the winter. I put the bed to bed. And I felt better. Much better.
Now I'll wait until January, when the seed catalogs come. Wait until I'm stirred back out of my lethargy by promises of exotic colors and luscious tastes and vibrant green leaves and...and...and...
And I'll dream big again.