Sempreviva Bravanariz 2021

It is 14:27. The summer midday sun reached its peak about three weeks ago, yet no relief seems to be in sight. The heat weighs down on limbs and thoughts. A vacuum of physical and mental inhibition. A shimmer of heat on the horizon, wave-like vibrations, resembling flames, so hot that everything is on the verge of bursting into a metallic blue. The silence of the dusty country road is only interrupted by the chirping of crickets and the buzzing of other insects. But even they seem sluggish, making sounds only because they cannot help it. Those who can choose avoid any movement and sound. Minimalism of existence, a life in slow motion.
The air in invisible tremor. Every scent that was so clear in the morning is now soaked in heat and faded like an old sunshade bleached by the sun.

The dried peel of the orange that was peeled in the morning still lies on the wooden table. The memory of its juiciness seems almost within reach, yet escapes like the fruit flies when one tries to catch them. The squeezed lemons linger sourly in the air, suggesting a notion of freshness that doesn’t truly arrive even in the evening. The resin oozing from the grooves on the wooden table is already quite soft, almost liquid, a fly has gotten trapped in it. The half-shrubs of the straw flower, now bald, smell spicy, honey-warm, and yet dry. With every wave of scent, the mouth turns into a dusty desert. As if they knew it, juniper needles throw cool and balsamic lifelines just when the senses threaten to overheat. The lavender still emits faint signals of life, its head heavy on its shoulders.
In the dim kitchen, the still fresh fennel lies in its sweet green. Storing it must have been too exhausting. The bunch of rosemary, placed in a glass of water, remains unaffected by the lifeless heat and floods the rooms with its spiciness. Time stretches endlessly and no longer finds its way. Like the postcard from last summer's vacation that never arrived. It too has probably faded and yellowed like this day.

***

As if summer had been captured in a bottle. All its liveliness, its sluggishness, the heat, the sounds of insects, the longing for refreshment, the dusty roads…
Lemons so naturalistically sour that my mouth waters. Fennel so sweetly fresh, as if I were standing at the market stall in the early morning. Immortelle so spicy, dusty, dry, as if I were walking over Mediterranean cliffs. Where I-I Terralba touched me intellectually, "Sempreviva" hits me authentically and without abstraction right in the heart. Quietly, with the sluggish movements of a summer day, it sneaks up on me, unexpectedly. And I wonder when exactly summers stopped feeling eternal.