They were ripe

And they were sweet.

They’d tickle my chin with their little hairs,

Pulling a smile to my cracked lips.

The heat always did that.

Probably didn’t help that I never used lip balm.

The moment my teeth sunk into the soft body

juice would dribble,









Down my chin

Until it formed,

A perfect,


Bead where the light caught on it in such a way

That it glimmered.

That little trail of juice was always cold, sticky, and


I remember how the weather would always be warm.

It was a pleasant sort of warm, too.

Never too hot

Or humid.

It always made the peaches taste sweeter.

Mother said she didn’t understand how it was possible,

But I could see it in her eyes,

The way they glimmered just as bright as the juice on her chin.

She understood.

She’d sit with me on the front porch

And we’d eat together in silence.

Just us,

The fruit,

The dribbling juice on our


I wish I could go back to those days.




Sometimes I’d read the newspaper,

And I’d occasionally mention something to her,

Something that was happening in town,

In the world.

On those days, the scent of paper intermingled with the peaches

And the wind.

The breeze that ruffled my long, light strands always smelled of something or other.

Mowed grass.

An incoming storm.

Fresh sprayed fields.

Those days were sometimes my favorite.

Mother always thought me weird, but I enjoyed the smell.

It was the smell of the country,

The smell of home

Just like the smell of the peaches and the newspaper were the smell of a perfect

Spring day.

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