The Farmer’s Market
The thing is, I go months without peaches. January and March and June crawl by, and I throw some blueberries into a bowl or slice up a Gala, and I don’t even think about peaches. Then mid-summer, I get one, and maybe it’s okay, and I don’t think much about it, but a week or so later, I get another one, and there I am standing over the sink–the smell of it intoxicating!–and it’s running down my face, and it’s all I want. Weeks pass, and I snatch up peaches so fast and greedy that they bruise in the bag, but I don’t mind, not at all. I eat it or cut around it or pretend it’s not there.
Mid-September comes. Late September. October. And every Thursday, on our way to the farmer’s market, I harbor the tiny fear that they’ll be gone, that in their place will be kale and sweet potatoes and chard, and when I ask the lady, she’ll shake her head with a little regret and tell me I have to wait until next year. So far, I’ve been lucky (Look mom, peaches! Eva says.), but oh tomorrow…Tomorrow looms.