Tennessee Peaches

Tearing open the knotted, plastic bag,
I reached in for each peach--

big, round, no bruises,

still a few days away from ripe.

Five peaches perched on my white tile

kitchen counter top.

Just the day before, in Lebanon, Tennessee at the

Tuesday Farmers Co-op under the metal cover,

My friend, my step-father, and I surveyed the okra, tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, new potatoes, and zucchini.
But it was the peaches that won my heart.
They always do.
“I'll take that carton,” I announced to the farmer woman vendor.
She took my $5 and I took the heavy plastic bag in which she dumped my peaches.
Driving home to North Little Rock, Arkansas I smiled
as I thought about my peaches from Tennessee
riding in the backseat.

But just now, after coming back from a Subway supper
down the road from my Arkansas house,
I unlocked my back door, walked into my kitchen,
And switched on my three little kitchen lamps.
And then I caught the smell,
Oh the smell.
It reached down to my heart, to my soul, and touched something.
A flood of feelings . . . .
Joy and homesickness,
Delight and bygone memories of family,
Pleasure and a gut-grasping need for belonging--
all those feelings and longings and memories
were alive within mere seconds of the peach aroma
infusing my kitchen.


The blessing of where I am,
the longing for where I was,
and the hope for where I'll be
all meet in the smell of
Tennessee peaches.