Wednesday, April 13, 2011

cherry orchards

I remember
sharing glasses of ice water
beneath the shade of the elderberry tree
cool stream bubbling, my aunts chattering
platters of cucumbers, cheese
the smell of fresh bread
and tea, steaming from picnic cups
passed around with a prayer by my grandmother.

I remember
lazy afternoons under the sun
the buzz and drone of grasshoppers
my father’s rhythmic snore
and me, laughing on my back
alongside my cousin and sister
reaching up to twist off cherries of different colors
the way they would burst between my teeth
sweet juices rolling in my mouth
and the sticky feeling of their pits on my fingers.


And now, through air conditioned spaces
and the metallic taste of water fountains
where the midday laze is replaced
with Tim Horton’s double doubles
I still look for those red, pink and yellow cherries
in the colored aisles of the grocery store.

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