#67

An orange peach, speckled with a spectrum of reds and yellows, rests among its brothers and sisters in a fluorescently-lit grocery store. People pass by, run their fingertips along its flesh, press, testing. A hand, calloused, picks it up, rotates it, presses gently, places it in its basket. Peach travels in dark bag until it is brought back into the light, next to a window sill, in a clay bowl placed on a worn wood chopping block counter. It sits there for days, bathing in the sun during the day, resting in the dark and cool of the night. The hand occasionally descends and presses gently on its flesh, until one day its flesh gives. A cool shower in the sink, the hands gently rubbing fuzzy skin. Onto a plate. And then teeth, piercing skin. An explosion of sugary liquid and soft sweet flesh, dribbling down chin. Again. And again. Tongue raking, savoring the flavor contained: sunlight, humidity, fertile soil, thunderstorms, fireflies, the sound of crickets, a dog barking, calloused hands, salty sweat, evening prayers, kisses on foreheads, bedtime stories, deep, deep sleep.