blue and orange

I slid off my shoes, bright red toes complimentary to the green grass which felt cool and cushy on my feet. The September breeze blew through my hair, wafting the smell of shampoo across my nose. Mom scaled the ladder to reach the ones at the top. I started low, remembering what Grandma said: If they don't come off with one twist, they aren't ready. I stuck my hand under the dark green leaves and felt for fuzz. Grabbing hold, I tugged. I placed the first one in the bag and went back to the same spot. By the time Grandma joined us, both of our bags were brimming.

I like to find the ones that are almost round; the ones with dark plum-colored underbellies I can press my thumb into, proving them ready to eat and branding them mine.

The three of us picked for a while more, Grandma divulging her canning and freezing secrets as she twisted, one peach at a time.

Her blue bowl was sitting on the small table in the kitchen along the wall. It's the table that was at our house along our wall while she and Grandpa were in Sweden. The blue pitcher always sits beside it. The bowl was full of peaches, the orange complimentary to the blue.

Stepping on the stool, I reach for my blue bowl next to the blue pitcher on the top shelf. I fill it with peaches, placing the roundest one on top, plum-colored belly up.