Peaches (repeat)

By Elizabeth Paul

Originally posted June 23, 2014. 

The peach's soft flesh is so barely protected by its thin and fuzzy skin that I think it can't possibly be serious, but rather a jubilant sunburst, radiant and unworried in the brief noon of its summered existence, simply satisfied with the bright sweetness of its being. I take eight of them from a dusty crate at the farmer's market and place them in a bag. On the bus ride home, I hold the bag in my lap and feel their round sun-touch on my legs. 

All my life I've sought a thicker skin, seen a silver lining of virtue in each cloudy bruise, looked for the recompense of callous from rejection and strife. But now I think how much better it would be to mature into something so thin skinned as a peach. What confidence and trust and peace would need to swell between such a skin and the hard pit of being to ripen so bold and gentle a fruit. What a firm and tender substance it takes to shine such a fine and fearless face on the world. 

In the kitchen, I take each peach in my palm and refract it into a tumble of sun shards. I make the best pie I have ever made, my small apartment suffused with the smell of ripe goodness in its eternal prime.

Photo "Fuzzy Peaches" provided by Jessica W, via Flickr creative commons license.