It has been a ritual of sorts. Every Sunday, for the past several weeks, I head to the farmers market. There is a fruit truck there, you see. And it beholds soft, fuzzy peaches from British Columbia. I place about 8 or so in a bag - and they are all for me. The kind-looking woman at the checkout knows. You like the peaches, she says. I nod. And she nods too. Yes. They are good. And when they get home, they won't last the week. I typically let them ripen on the counter until they smell just about right, and their flesh gives a little. Then I bite into one and let the juices dribble down my chin, arms. Sometimes this happens while I'm hovering over the sink (and I promise, I never eat over the sink, but I can't help myself) or it happens while sitting under my favourite tree in the backyard. It's a ritual of sorts that is slowly coming to an end, because as goes summer, as go the peaches. These last days of summer are numbered; the crisp mornings and faint cry of the geese overhead tell me so. Just like a reluctant lover, no matter how hard you hold on, goodbye must be said. Oh, but it was fun while it lasted.
