Melancholy

I am about to eat my last peach of the season. I was picking up a quart a week at Brittingham’s Produce in Milton. This year they were so juicy I had to lean out past my body to avoid staining every shirt I own, and big? Bigger than my hand, granted I have a tiny hand, but still. Last week, she said “those are the end.” I said give me a bushel and a peck, which makes me think of this song: