Hot is what I used to be. Not now.
I feel the chill coming on and the warm days are numbered. I remember the Midwest September so many years ago when the corn harvest is complete. A lone man sits atop a combine to plow under the leavings. A woman wrapped in red gingham reaches out her hand to wave from the front porch. She calls to him. Her voice is mute. The field will lie fallow to rest for another season, surge to life again.
October arrives. I feel the sharp to-the-bone chill of winter’s promise, then a sudden burst of heat and with it, a last-minute beach trip to the lake. Let’s go quick before the leaves crisp, turn golden, magenta and pumpkin. Quick, before a north wind carries them to earth where we trample and kick them, rake and burn them, watch them turn to lace and float skyward.
Then, hot was when there was juice flowing through my veins, when my vagina was juicy warm and ready, when my hair flowed sideways with a glance toward an attractive man, when I was always ready for what was next. Then, I was single again, accustomed to stepping out. Then, I could bicycle fifty miles and dance beyond midnight, a habit I maintained well into my fifties along with that sideways glance.
Now, winter approaches faster. The earth spins forward like a baseball hurled from a pitcher’s hand. I wrap myself in cozy wool colored with indigo, nap, take gentle walks rather than energetic hikes, fall asleep as russet earth meets inky sky. While there are fewer seeds to plant and less energy to nurture them, sometimes I feel power surges that burst into a thousand ideas, calling me, saying go on, you can do it.
My own mother is 98. She lives a long time, though mostly now she sleeps and when she does, I wonder what she dreams of yet. Her energy is spent and soon it will be her time. Her Indian summer was long ago.
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I live where it is summer much of the year, even when it is supposed to be winter. From October to March, it feels like the Indian Summer I remember. My home is in southern Mexico, just a few miles from the birthplace of native corn. The conquerors named my Zapotec neighbors Indians. I refer to them as indigenous, a more respectful term, I think. I step carefully on the ancient cobbled streets, eat mangoes and papaya, wiping sticky sweet juice from my mouth with the back of my hand.
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Norma Hawthorne writes and photographs from a small indigenous village where she lives just a few miles beyond Oaxaca, Mexico. Her blog, Oaxaca Cultural Navigator LLC, features arts, photography and textile workshops and creative writing retreats for women and men, and commentary about life and culture.
