Knee deep in peaches, up to my ass in grapes, and the sweet glowing orbs of cherry tomatoes are split by sudden growth from yesterday’s heavy rain.
This year, I said, this year I will make jelly. But the bounty overburdens baskets, overwhelms. He said there were more out there after he had picked a bushel. I go to check for just a handful more, more ripened by a day of sun and rain. There are thousands. Look, he says, and I turn to gaze at where he’s pointing. The spot where Andy threw away the trimmings off the vines. Now all grown up and heavy draped along the trees and brush with purple clusters. A sinking feeling in my soul; there are too many. No jelly this year; I shall make the much easier wine.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I’ve been reading you for a long time. Don’t know if you’re ready for true critcism. Feedback meant in the kindest way. Source hardly perfect, yet, with you – such astounding talent – need to hear it.
Is that my cell phone?
Go for it. I shall try not to curl into fetal position and uncoil into claws. I need to hear it.