The Salt of Summer

The memory of summer is not a date on a calendar; it is the sharp, metallic tang of a tomato split open under a thumbnail. It is the way the juice runs down the wrist, sticky and warm, leaving a ghost of sweetness that lingers long after the meal is done. I remember the rough, toasted edge of bread against the roof of my mouth—a dry, satisfying scrape that gives way to the cool, velvet give of oil and herb. There is a specific silence that comes with eating something so alive, a quiet reverence for the earth that pulled this flavor from the dirt. We carry these sensations in the marrow of our bones, a stored heat that flares up when the air turns heavy and the light grows long. Does the body ever truly let go of the things that have nourished it, or do we simply store them in the quiet corners of our skin, waiting for a scent or a texture to call them home?