peaches

my great grandmother hated air conditioning.

whenever we went to visit her in the summer (always reluctantly i might add, because ‘mom, it’s always so hot in nana’s houseee’) we were lovingly but sternly chided for being spoiled brats ‘who don’t know how to open a window’. on the hottest days, she would have a tissue tucked in between her massive breasts to absorb perspiration, and a damp hankie folded neatly along the inside of her her collar, which she would rewet periodically with cold water. her kitchen always smelled of ripe peaches, which she kept in an unending supply in a bowl atop the refrigerator. she would sit at her white linoleum table doling out peach slices on white paper napkins to each of us, each slice precisely cut with her beloved paring knife, the one she cut absolutely everything with, ever since i could remember.

and as i sit here now in my artificially cooled kitchen, i find myself missing her, and wondering why the peaches i buy at the fruit company never, ever taste half as good as the peaches i ate in that kitchen when i was a kid.