He brought peaches to my porch. There were four perfect peaches in a clear bag, placed on a table. They were still cold. These peaches, their skin so soft, and shining yellow and orange and maroon, bore his fragrance. I touched the stem that remained, the umbilical broken inside a dimple. I kissed it there..I delighted in his peaches. He toiled in pride, early mornings, with care, before the blossoms were born. His hands strong and bold with calloused labor. I tasted his peaches. I sat in the sun on the edge of summer, wood at my feet, stained with shiny sugar, brunch for bees, from the juices that escaped me. I studied the center, a pit pocked in sienna. I delighted in his peaches. I photographed them. On a brown batik background, the peach posed pretty for me. I painted his peaches. On canvas, I touched him with each stroke, to capture forever, what was fading into autumn. It’s flesh molded into my fingertips as I closed my eyes and inhaled his peaches. They told me, he thought of me. And I delighted in his peaches.