Our tree out front is heavy with fresh fruit. I love looking down on it from our bedroom window: it's like seeing a bird's eye view of the sun kissed smoothness - all the peaches oddly pink at the same angle, as if they need sunscreen on their delicate skin. Every now and then the sweet peach smell wafts past my nose and at times it seems even the lightest breeze knocks off a few more pieces.
We watch her and try to ease the pressure. Passersby always admire the color and want a piece off her. I of course am a hound dog, considering myself her body guard. Still, the excitement in the air is hard not to enjoy. She brings a fresh beauty to the neighborhood right now and I love seeing otherwise sugar-stunted kids craving a natural treat from our tree.
Some days, I expect to wake up and see her wholly lying on the ground having finally succumbed to the weight of bearing so much fruit. The other day, a branch broke and we collected about 50 withered peaches not yet ripe for the picking. We both felt so bad they sat on the table for a few days before I finally took them out to the alley not knowing what else to do. I didn't have the heart to officially throw them away.
I plucked some more today in an effort to ease the gravity on her bended branches. Each release came with the slightest upward motion of a branch. I ended up collecting another bowl full of peaches - I hope these ones will ripen.
The last time the tree bloomed, miss m was in my belly and I felt we had a strange comaradry. I long for that feeling every day when I pass her; I think how amazing we are when we are in bloom. Hold on old girl, you're almost there!