Summer Peaches
It’s just an ordinary day in early August – not much to do, nowhere in particular to be. Summer. The day is warm, the sun high in a clear sky. Country music blares into the van. The mountains are all around us. In my rearview mirror are two blond heads and two sets of blue eyes. The back of the van is packed with bags of groceries, the cost of which caused my chest to tighten when I handed my debit card to the Safeway clerk.
I see a roadside stand on highway 202. Peaches. $1.00.
We stop and cross the highway holding hands. As we approach, the scent of ripe peaches tickles our noses. Our mouths water in anticipation. A teenage boy with a languid way of speaking and eyes the color of the sky above explains he has white or yellow peaches. Which would we like to try?
“Both?” asks Emerson, holding out her hands and flashing him a shy smile.
My girls have cheeks like peaches sprinkled with nutmeg, I think, watching them in the covert way we mothers do.
The boy gives us a sample of each. His nails have dirt under them. I imagine unseen callouses in the palms of his hands and on his feet from years of outdoor work.
The pieces of peach are sweet and soft. We murmur our delight.
“Can we get a bag of each?” asks Ella.
I nod, yes, cringing a little at the cost. But it’s peaches, I think. And my girls love them. They should have everything good summer has to offer. Always.
“Where are you guys from?” I ask the boy, reaching for the cash in my shorts pocket.
He replies, “Yakima. We’ll be back with corn and watermelon in a couple of weeks.”
“We have to remember that, Mom,” says Ella on the way back to the van, her brows wrinkling in worry. She knows my propensity for forgetfulness.
“We should write it down,” says Emerson.
“Get in the car,” I say, setting the peaches next to Ella’s feet.
When we get home I put the peaches in my blue bowl. I run my thumb over the soft fuzz of the fruit. I put my nose close and breathe in the smell of summer. Standing back for a moment, I let myself enjoy the pure beauty of crimson fruit next to the deep blue of the bowl. My mother would capture this in a watercolor, I think, giving it an almost dreamy quality with her subtle brush strokes. My friend Clare would photograph it at just the right angle so the composition became art instead of just a bowl of peaches. Mary Oliver would write a poem about it, comparing peaches to childhood or the softness in each of us or some other such connection. I sigh with the pleasure of nature’s simple gifts, of the way they can inspire and transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.
Then, I remember a story told to me years ago by another mother, when Ella was still a baby. This woman loved peaches. She eagerly anticipated peach season every year and bought bag after bag during the lazy weeks of summer. She lined them up on her counter, watching them ripen. When they were ready and not before – this ripening should not be rushed – she and her daughter savored each one like others might fine wine or chocolate. One morning there was only one left. She knew by the smell of it and the slight give when she pressed into the skin that it was the perfect ripeness. Perhaps the best peach of the season? Or the best peach ever? Was it possible? Oh, how good the peaches had been all season, she thought. But this one! This was the peach of the summer. Her mouth watered. Should she eat it now or save it for lunch? And then she thought of her teenage daughter sleeping the lazy, indolent sleep of adolescence upstairs. How she would enjoy it when she came down for breakfast. Of course, she must have it. Of course. The woman smiled and set the peach back on the counter, filling with pleasure that she could give this small, sweet thing to her daughter.
She found a sticky note and placed it next to summer’s bounty.
“I saved the best one for you.”
Now, I turn away from the blue bowl and the crimson peaches and reach for my stack of cookbooks. Peach cobbler? Pea pie? What would my girls like best, I wonder?
I saved the best one for you. Always. Of course.
