There's something off about the colors in this photo; something wrong with the contrast between fruit and cloth. I stared at it for quite a while before I could put my finger on it: it's the seasons that are behind the discord.
This melon is bright, pale orange like the light of so many summer evenings, and resting in a bowl of sunny yellow. The cloth—my favorite for the table this time of year—is more subdued, it's colors fading like the season.
I've no right to expect the melon to fit in. It is, after all, late October, and most of its kin were harvested at least by the middle of the month. It doesn't belong, anymore, amidst the falling leaves and freezing rain storms and the chilly hustle of autumn nights.
Going down, it was bittersweet. The cantaloupe seemed to symbolize the end of an era, the wrapping up of a season so well beloved. When the apples are gone—and at this I shiver—it truly will be the end of fresh fruit for breakfast, back to oatmeal and cranberries and the frozen berry contents of the freezer. This will be the first winter I've ever really tried this, ever really committed myself to a stretch of months without stolen South American blueberries and strawberries ripened under the California sun.
But without a bit of longing, it's true: there's nothing much to desire. From oats to next year's melons, I can only imagine the delight.