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.