Support Your Local Farmersâ Market
Sheâs hard to miss, walking through the farmersâ market in her blue dress dotted with white polka dots and her wide brimmed white straw hat. Red curls tumble to her waist, held together at the nape of her neck with a bow that matches her dress. She holds a basket over one arm and a white lace parasol in her other hand, providing her with additional protection from the weight of the summer sun. So I donât understand why no one looks at her.
Itâs cash and barter only at this market, but I donât see her exchange words with anyone, and no one notices when she picks up something from a table and leaves something else in its place. I slip into a stall sheâs just left and examine what sheâs left behind. Itâs a jar, filled with a dark red, almost opaque viscous substance. A honey, maybe, or a jelly?
I came here for makings for a salad for dinner tonight, but dinner is now forgotten. I trail after her, entranced.
Her shoes arenât stilettos but theyâre still not practical for the marketâstacked wedges, with strips of fabric that cross her toes and the arches of her feet and wrap around her ankles, tied with more bows. She doesnât stumble once on the uneven pavement. Thereâs something about her movements that fascinates me, an almost preternatural grace. Or maybe I could forget the âalmostâ part, because suddenly she turns and stares at me, and her green eyes are too bright beneath her thick lashes, spearing me in place and driving the breath from my lungs.
I try to break eye contact, but Iâm frozen in place, until she smiles and shakes her head. And then sheâs gone, disappeared into the crowd, parasol no longer bobbing above the moving heads.
I try to forget her as I browse the selection of wild mushrooms, making my selections. Try to forget the impression that her teeth had seemed a bit too sharp, or that her grass green eyes didnât have pupils. Once I make my purchase, I retreat to the shelter of the small tables set up near the food booths, a cup of shaved lemon ice in one hand. I close my eyes as I savor the sharp tang and the underlying hint of bitterness, and a voice sounds behind me.
âMind if I join you?â
Before I open my eyes. I know itâs her.
âUm.â I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry. âOf course. Please.â
The smile she graces me with causes the hairs on my arms to stir as she sets her basket down on the table. The memory of her eyes has already faded and their vividness, brighter than her dress, strikes me again. She has pupils, but theyâre mere pinpricks in a sea of green, and the whites of her eyes are whiter than bleached cotton.
She sets her basket on the table and I try not to look inside, but I canât help myself. It distracts from her otherness and satisfies my curiosityâwhat could such a creature want from our little market? Apparently, the answer to that question is a variety of herbs, a bundle of carrots, a braided rope of garlic, and a staggering assortment of peppers. A few of the jars sheâd been leaving around the market remain. They are all labeled, but I canât make out whatâs written on them.
She has a cup of iced tea. I can smell peaches and mint. After a long sip from the straw, pointed teeth denting the compostable paper straw, she sets her cup down next to the basket and digs in between the produce, pulling out a bright yellow metal cannister. As she pops the lid off, she says, âSunscreen.â
I wrinkle my nose in anticipation as she squirts some foam into her palm, then relax as instead of the harsh chemical scent I expected, I smell only lemons.
âWhat brand is that?â I ask, meeting her eyes gaze and then skittering away as she smooths the foam on her arm.
She angles the can towards me so I can read the label. âItâs for surfers, but itâs one of the few Iâve found that doesnât reek. Iâve got a rather sensitive nose,â she tells me.
âMe too,â I say, wincing at the inanity of the statement. I look up again, and then away, as sheâs moved from her arms to her neck and the front of her chest, pale creamy flesh above the vee of her dress that would put a marble statue to shame.
âI probably donât need another coat, but Iâve got to be careful. Number one risk group for skin cancer, you know.â
She doesnât look like sheâs ever spent more than five minutes in the sun in her entire life. Her skin has an unearthly glow, as if moonlight had taken earthly form. I concentrate on my ice as she moves down to her legs. She twists her shapely ankles this way and that, working the foam into the exposed skin between the fabrics.
âHave you ever sunburned your feet?â she asks. âItâs the worst.â
âCanât say that I have,â I said, taking another bite of my ice. She reminds me of the dessertâsweet, but with an underlying edge, a hidden bite just waiting to surface.
âItâs cute, how youâre trying so hard not to stare,â she said, and there it is. I choke on my mouthful of ice.
âIâm notâŚ. I mean I didnâtâŚ.â I stammer.
âI know. It was an observation. Most people canât see me at all, and those that do are rarely so polite.â I dare to meet her eyes again, and sheâs smiling. She holds out one elegantly manicured hand to me, nails a deep red that contrasts with her hair. âIâm Tryamon. Tria to my friends.â
I hesitate before taking her hand, and her smile takes a wry twist at my hesitation. Itâs dry and warm, and her grip is firm. âMichaela,â I tell her.
âAh! Who is like God,â she says, and I blink in surprise. âCharmed, Michaela. Thank you for the company.â And with that, she stands. She removes a jar and puts her cup of tea in its place, then picks up her basket. âMaybe weâll meet again.â
I belatedly stand as she walks away. âWait! You forgot your jar!â
âEnjoy it,â she says without turning her head. âItâs a gift, freely given and with no ties attached. No harm shall come to you from it.â Bemused, I watch her go, wondering now what will happen to those for whom jars she had left without such a promise. âPomegranate Habanero Jellyâ is handwritten on the small label on the front of the jar in an elegant and archaic script. I turn it around in my hands, but thereâs nothing else. Looking up, I see sheâs disappeared. I look for her, but sheâs nowhere to be found in the market. I forget about my ice while I search and by the time I remember it, itâs slush.
 Normally Iâd go to the farmersâ market once every few weeks, sometimes going a month or two in between visits. I begin to go every week, hoping to run into TryamonâTriaâagain.
I never see her, but I do notice the absence of familiar faces. There are rumors of staid lives upended and travels unexpected, but fresh faces come in to take their places and things return to normal.
Eventually, I open the jar. The sweetness comes with a hidden bite, the pepper flavor infused somehow into the jelly. Much like its maker, I think. I make it last, a spoonful every week or so, but eventually I come to the bottom of the jar. Each night after Iâve eaten some, I dream of strange and wonderful lands just out of reach, but in the mornings the dreams fade and the only reason I remember them at all is because Iâve written them down.
Rereading my notes about those dreams, I wonder if those jars of jelly that were left like changeling babies, foods in exchange for the fruits of othersâ labors, had prompted those missing faces to go in search of these mythic dreamlands. I guess Iâll never know.
Iâve filled the jar with glass marbles and set it on my windowsill, above the kitchen sink, where the morning light shines through them. It fills my kitchen with a kaleidoscope of color that hints at the wonders that wait on the other side of sleep.
Eventually Iâll forget, and then Iâll wonder why I thought a mason jar was so important as to keep, and Iâll fill it myself with some preserved goods, or donate it to the thrift store, and the notebook will disappear in a drawer, and the wonder of it all will fade away. I donât know whether to regret this or look forward to it. But that day has not yet come, so Iâll poke at the memory while it remains.
In the meantime, my kitchen has rainbows.
