Habits

During this past summer, I got into a habit.

Our raised gardens are to the side of the garage, and I got in the habit of meandering over to them every day on my way to the studio, which is the back part of the garage.

I'd look to see what was growing, what was budding, blooming or producing fruit. And if that fruit (or vegetable) was getting big enough that we could soon pick and eat.

It was a pleasant stop, to stand in the breeze and contemplate what we might have for supper in the not too distant future.

There is something very satisfying about a garden - knowing where something comes from, eating what you grew with your own hands. Well, Husband's own hands, anyway.

Usually, even if I'd only been out in the studio a few minutes, I'd find myself in front of the garden again before traveling back across to the house.

It's November. I still find myself veering over toward the garden, although it's all brown earth now.

But in my mind's eye, I can see the green stalks shooting up, the red tomatoes peeking forth, the big yellow blossoms of squash quivering in a summer breeze.

It won't be long - a blink of an eye, a snow flake or two - and some of us will be looking summer square in the eye again.

And, well, some of us won't.