The peaches this year came in all at once, the way good things sometimes do — too many for the bowl, a few already soft at the shoulder, smelling of something between honey and rust.
I stood at the counter on a Tuesday, no particular reason to stop, but I stopped, and cut one open the way my mother did, twisting the halves apart with both hands, the pit coming free clean.
There is a moment, just after, when the juice runs to the edge of your palm and you have to decide whether to lick it or reach for a towel, and I always reach for the towel though I cannot tell you why.
The kitchen window was yellow with afternoon. Somewhere outside, a truck downshifted on the hill.
I have been thinking about that peach for days now — not because it meant something, or maybe because it did, or maybe that’s the same thing, and I’m still not sure.