June 8, 2021

goodbye peaches

How long does a thing have to die before you stop insisting otherwise? The tree
outside the front windows could not have made it any clearer and yet there I was,
avoiding nine-tenths of the evidence while the upper branches blew their wad
on a cache of blossoms, and I rejoiced, imagining something of a resurrection, though
the flowers had come too early, like party guests intent on avoiding the inevitable downfall
at the later rounds. Even when it came, that fungal mutiny on the leaves,
I leapt for the bottle in the garage that did the trick last summer. I believed the lifeline
was mine to throw. I believed rescue was simply a matter of time and stubbornness.
My father slipped away with no one in the room. In the yards before my return, the tree
had laid itself to rest. Now the birds are in my heart, pecking at all the fruit that’s left.