On the label it will say - YOU.

Suddenly, everyone is gone.

Perhaps it has been happening slowly and I only just noticed it now. The vacation is ending. Yes it’s still august and the days are still hot and we swim in the afternoon in the red waters of the Salagou, or the blue clair at the pont de diable. It still isn’t sure if we won’t have one more dip in the sparkling salty sea water before autumn. Never the less, it’s over. The summer has turned.

The flavor of the fruit at the market starts hinting of preserves on warm toast with hot tea. It’s color is darker and the flesh softer, like summer, it is rotting into fall. It’s a richer sweeter taste only because it is about to go bad. And by that I mean kaput, finis, over, gone.

The house is empty. Just me and her, and even she has gone for the day. I’ve been surrounded with people all summer, tens and tens of folks in ever rotating groups. Love love love. Everyday we were having a party, or planning, preparing or cleaning one up. It’s hectic and fun and, thanks to the fat sun that hangs long in the sky, well lit.

In a sense, one needs think of nothing.

Gin and tonic, riding high in the ice. Cool wine and cold beer. Shade, slight breezes, and quiet swims in cool black water reflecting starry nights. Oh there are moments. Were moments. Now distilling memories. Mmm good fruit makes sweet jam for cold dark winter days.

Chicago, La Roquette, New York, Clermont l’herault. New Jersey and Moureze. The Atlantic ocean and the Mediterranean sea. The great lake Michigan, and the Salagou. Indians lake, and the piscines publique. I was wet everywhere I went. And all because of you, never alone. Mmm you. Like a cool mist on hot skin, even the thought of you gives pleasure.

But the harvest of summer is almost over, and it’s evidence is the empty house. Fun in the sun is over again. It’s au boulot for tous les monde. School and factories, field hands and functionaries. Actors, artists, working class bores - watch the closing doors.

Here, the grapes are waiting. One more week, perhaps two, and for me it’s sore muscles and purple hands. In the meantime I can take care of some loose ends, cook down and put up the sweet memories before they go bad. I’ll label them - NOUS / summer 2009