A single wasp wanders idly from one peach to the next, sucking out the juices that seep from beneath the cracked skins. On impact, these half-rotten fruits burst open like little water balloons of syrupy summer sweetness; the insects feast without their usual urgency; they know we’ve left these for them.
I lie on my stomach with my face just inches above the nearest one, breathing in its fermented aroma and waving a lazy hand at bees that buzz too close. I watch a millipede work its way in and out of the holes at either end, and ants in a parade tapping their antennae as they sniff out a morsel or two to filch under the watch of the larger bugs. The grass is alive with movement.
I flip over onto my back and stretch in the heat of the sun on my naked chest. I’ve been out in the orchard all day, tossing the dropped fruit into heaps for my grandfather to shovel onto the wagon later and haul off to the compost heap. The buckets of moldy fruit make me dizzy with their putrid, too-sweet aroma and the little clouds of spores that erupt from the mold growing on them. I’ve been licking my fingers of juice as I’ve been piling the peaches, and now little blades of grass stick to my chin. I think I might fall asleep as I watch the clouds drifting overhead, making their swirls of mountains and oceans and castles I'll never visit.
The orchard is my grandfather’s greatest delight. Any guests who make the trek to this 100-acre jewel in the middle of New York state are invited (treated, in my opinion) to a tour of the assorted fruit trees, each ripening in sequence: plums, apricots, peaches, cherries, pears, apples. Down in the lower forty, strawberries, tomatoes, and corn compete for attention. All of them coaxed from seed to fruit by his firm and patient hand, tended and nourished and culled as needed.
At dinner, my grandfather’s eyes gleam at me with pride and with anticipation. Tomorrow, we will pick all of the peaches. They are just ripe, yielding only the slightest bit to the touch. A gentle pull on the stem releases a ball of perfect velvet into my palm. I picked one, and ate it secretly behind the sauna, because we’re not supposed to have them yet; we are only to eat the drops. It was a moment of bliss and guilt so maddening that I had to run into the garden and weed two extra rows of beans to atone for it. But tomorrow, we will be allowed to pull them from the tree, and not wait for the windfalls, nature’s cast-offs, the almost-good-enough. Tomorrow my grandmother will make a pie from the best of the best, and we will enjoy these few perfect gifts before we take the rest to market.
I fall asleep in the small featherbed, smelling peach on my face despite my grandmother’s swipes with the washcloth. The breeze outside picks up and lulls me to sleep with it sibilant hushing. In a dream, I hear its whispers grow into a snarl and then a howl, and I wake up, trembling from the nightmare I must be having. Outside, there is a terrible noise. It’s a skittering, clawlike sound on the roof and walls. Branches, blowing? Leaves? I’m confused; there aren’t any trees this close to the house. The tapping escalates, becomes a pounding; a clamorous, insistent drumming that can mean only one thing to those of us who live our lives by nature’s whims.
It is the sound of hail.
I run downstairs, my eyes manic, anguish roiling acutely in my belly. I see the silhouettes of my grandparents at the window, my grandfather encircling my grandmother’s shoulder with his arm. My breath catches in my throat and I make a small, mewling sound. I run to him and bury my face in his jacket, and sob out all of my grief into that rough and smoky embrace. I cry and cry, as I listen to the roaring, clattering monster subside and finally retreat.
My grandfather lifts my chin and smiles into my eyes. I can’t bear to look at him, but I must, because you don’t turn away from a face like that. Silently, he leads me to the lean-to and opens the door. I look past him, past the tractor, to the crates standing stacked for tomorrow’s harvest. Then I see them. They are crates piled high with peaches, picked at the last moments of the day after young children went to bed. Peaches saved by a timely warning and a few neighborly hands. Peaches, glorious velveteen orbs of summer sunset, piled into wooden boxes and lighting up my grandfather’s eyes for me.
I lie on my stomach with my face just inches above the nearest one, breathing in its fermented aroma and waving a lazy hand at bees that buzz too close. I watch a millipede work its way in and out of the holes at either end, and ants in a parade tapping their antennae as they sniff out a morsel or two to filch under the watch of the larger bugs. The grass is alive with movement.
I flip over onto my back and stretch in the heat of the sun on my naked chest. I’ve been out in the orchard all day, tossing the dropped fruit into heaps for my grandfather to shovel onto the wagon later and haul off to the compost heap. The buckets of moldy fruit make me dizzy with their putrid, too-sweet aroma and the little clouds of spores that erupt from the mold growing on them. I’ve been licking my fingers of juice as I’ve been piling the peaches, and now little blades of grass stick to my chin. I think I might fall asleep as I watch the clouds drifting overhead, making their swirls of mountains and oceans and castles I'll never visit.
The orchard is my grandfather’s greatest delight. Any guests who make the trek to this 100-acre jewel in the middle of New York state are invited (treated, in my opinion) to a tour of the assorted fruit trees, each ripening in sequence: plums, apricots, peaches, cherries, pears, apples. Down in the lower forty, strawberries, tomatoes, and corn compete for attention. All of them coaxed from seed to fruit by his firm and patient hand, tended and nourished and culled as needed.
At dinner, my grandfather’s eyes gleam at me with pride and with anticipation. Tomorrow, we will pick all of the peaches. They are just ripe, yielding only the slightest bit to the touch. A gentle pull on the stem releases a ball of perfect velvet into my palm. I picked one, and ate it secretly behind the sauna, because we’re not supposed to have them yet; we are only to eat the drops. It was a moment of bliss and guilt so maddening that I had to run into the garden and weed two extra rows of beans to atone for it. But tomorrow, we will be allowed to pull them from the tree, and not wait for the windfalls, nature’s cast-offs, the almost-good-enough. Tomorrow my grandmother will make a pie from the best of the best, and we will enjoy these few perfect gifts before we take the rest to market.
I fall asleep in the small featherbed, smelling peach on my face despite my grandmother’s swipes with the washcloth. The breeze outside picks up and lulls me to sleep with it sibilant hushing. In a dream, I hear its whispers grow into a snarl and then a howl, and I wake up, trembling from the nightmare I must be having. Outside, there is a terrible noise. It’s a skittering, clawlike sound on the roof and walls. Branches, blowing? Leaves? I’m confused; there aren’t any trees this close to the house. The tapping escalates, becomes a pounding; a clamorous, insistent drumming that can mean only one thing to those of us who live our lives by nature’s whims.
It is the sound of hail.
I run downstairs, my eyes manic, anguish roiling acutely in my belly. I see the silhouettes of my grandparents at the window, my grandfather encircling my grandmother’s shoulder with his arm. My breath catches in my throat and I make a small, mewling sound. I run to him and bury my face in his jacket, and sob out all of my grief into that rough and smoky embrace. I cry and cry, as I listen to the roaring, clattering monster subside and finally retreat.
My grandfather lifts my chin and smiles into my eyes. I can’t bear to look at him, but I must, because you don’t turn away from a face like that. Silently, he leads me to the lean-to and opens the door. I look past him, past the tractor, to the crates standing stacked for tomorrow’s harvest. Then I see them. They are crates piled high with peaches, picked at the last moments of the day after young children went to bed. Peaches saved by a timely warning and a few neighborly hands. Peaches, glorious velveteen orbs of summer sunset, piled into wooden boxes and lighting up my grandfather’s eyes for me.
This story was inspired by JJ's task of the week, Flash Fiction Friday. This week's assignment is to write about a storm. Want to play along? Go see JJ at Purgatorian; he'll tell you how.
