Summer is the season of outcomes: you lay in the sun, you get a sun tan (or if it's me, a burn). You go on vacation, you come home relaxed (and hopefully with many souvenirs in tow). You go out for your dinner, only to realize it's after nine (you've been following the late sun, setting in your actions). You're full of ideas and plans for the future, then get caught in the moment and decide to put everything off until the Fall. School starts for some, the future for others. Let's stay caught in the moment a little longer, you say to your summer self. The moment is plentiful:
It comes in the same color, but different sizes and shapes. Some on the vine, some harvested and ready to be consumed.
Consumed in the moment, you let yourself stare off into space. The moment passes but you catch another and another and the moments never leave you. Many moments can be caught. Many moments to be caught in.
Eyes wide, the moment is sweet. Life is sweet and good. If it was food, it was be a rose praline brioche. If it was silence, it would be the kind with the beating heart. If it was home, it would be the kind full of family, the scent of dinner, and an open window, letting in the still breeze of the backyard.
This is getting caught in the moment. When you have no reservation and that's absolutely fine. You wait for the table, you wait again and you wait longer. Longer this time than ever. But that doesn't matter. There's a set of eyes to stare into with your eyes. And a voice to hear and your voice to speak and suddenly you are sharing. There is no need to call this waiting at all. Give me no reservation, please. This summer, this one reservation-less summer.
Drink it up, this moment. Pour four glasses of it. This means there are four people, together. Three with you. You make up the four. These people love you. Or you just met them. You'll drink the wine and stay together, off to another bar, or you'll go home alone. Either way, you drank it up. And either way, you're not alone.
You dangle one more minute, thinking of this moment. How far off is the next, you might ask? A day trip? A yawn? A smile then a laugh then a howl then a deep breath. Dangle longer, dangle down. Don't let the moment pass, or let it pass. Let the moment pass and invite the new one to your door. Greet it. Open up to it. Let it in, or maybe you never locked it out. The door was never locked. It let itself in. The moment came into your kitchen while you were making dinner. It crept up behind you, while you were stirring pasta sauce. It put its arms around you while you were tasting for flavor, and you didn't even flinch.