There is a rhythm to life in Charleston that has soaked into my soul. It has to do with the way the marshes change from gold to green each year; how the angle of light changes as the seasons progress. The bright-hot colors of July are beginning to make an appearance, letting me know that soon, our mini monsoon time will become more pronounced -- afternoon thunderstorms chasing away the heat of summertime. I watch the calendar for months with "R" in them, keeping track of oyster season by a rule that was in place here before refrigeration was common-place. Tides mean more than the rise and fall of water levels. Moon phases beat a pulse in the waters around our home. The migration of birds marks the spring and the fall. There's a time to plant, to collect the bounty of the sea, to gather the fruits of the earth. Yesterday, we picked the first figs of the year, beating the birds to the luscious sweetness straight from the trees.
I've lived in cycles of 21 years with my mother -- the first 21 years of my life as I called her home mine; the last 21 years of hers as we once again shared a home after going separate ways for a bit. Now, at the end of another cycle of 21, we've marked time as mother and daughter, mother and grandmother, in the seasons of our lives. I miss you, Bumma.