There is a fig tree on a friend’s land that gives the best figs I have ever tasted. This afternoon I went to pick them, as I do every August, with a wicker basket that has taken the shape of my hands.<\/p>\n
Picking figs asks for an attention from another time. You have to look closely, touch them barely, know which one is at its point: the one that yields a little and lets out a drop of honey.<\/p>\n
The whole tree smells of sun and ripe summer. Bees buzz around the open fruit, and the still air wraps over everything.<\/p>\n
We filled the basket unhurriedly, talking about small things, the kind you do not say over the phone.<\/p>\n
Then, in the shade, we ate them with our hands, letting the juice run down our wrists. There is no cleaner way to eat a fig.<\/p>\n
I keep the afternoon the way one keeps a seed: small, closed, full of something that has not yet happened.<\/p>\n
Perhaps that is why I like August: because it tastes of what can be touched and eaten and shared.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
There is a fig tree on a friend’s land that gives the best figs I have ever tasted. This afternoon I went to pick them,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":31,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12585","diario","type-diario","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n