You always made me open the fruit-stand before I was ready. Before the displays were set. You would joke, in life when are you ever ready? Picking bin after bin, box after box, pound after pound. Your largest summer battles were with the fuzz that itched the cracks of your brown hands. Because you could read them. Because you could tell their stories by weight. You used to say squeeze, feel for the give and know that there will be bruises, that marks exist under skin. Visible only when peeled. You would create rows of peaches on the tables, the baton flicks of a seasoned conductor. These are ripe, you would say, sell them quickly. My fluency in this language, will die with you.