… one loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one’s dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss perhaps.
W. B. Yeats
Peaches are in the markets now. Big as suns. Golden and streaked with crimson rays. They are juicy and sweet and I was surprised to find them, closing in as we are on November. Maceo, sitting on the counter, was with his mom in the market, and he had a little device on which he was watching a cartoon. His feet were bare and one shoe was used to prop up this little video device. He had me join him in watching the cartoon while his mom watched that his little foot didn’t change the weight of the produce on the scale.
Foghorn’s sister is visiting her and I heard them discussing all the crime in Miami and then switch topics to Key West, which to Foghorn’s surprise, is an island. We had a minor upset this week as somehow the deadbolt to the gate to the street was stuck in a position which left me locked in and her locked out. And so I didn’t read to F that day.
This morning I stepped off the bus and just ahead of me was a mother and daughter, the daughter perhaps four years old. They held hands as they walked and nestled between the two hands was the stem of a plant, with leaves and that plant’s flowers that had turned to seeds. It was obviously important to both of them and perhaps to no other person in the world.
At some point during the week I heard from a friend from long ago; on Facebook she wondered what had become of me and of another person. I wrote her, she wrote back. And just that quickly, my dreams were lighter.