I take the back way home after
an afternoon with friends in the town
that embraced me four decades ago,
one that I’ve never released either.

It’s high summer fruit season, and,
I suspect, that if I head north on
Pleasants Valley Road toward Winters,
though the thermometer’s spilling
over the century mark, I might find
some folks sitting on the edge of their
orchards with baskets of sweetness
for sale.

A few miles down the road I see
the hand-lettered sign—Apricots!—
as I drive past, hang a U-ie to return.

I join two farm women under an oak
older than all three of us put together,
mother and daughter both well seasoned,
red-cheeked and cheerful, selling ’cots
pulled from their trees a dozen yards
behind them.

I ask how long the family’s been ranching,
and the farm wife chuckles. “Forever.
Married in a long time ago.” She shifts
on the walker that doubles as her chair
and shoots a thumb over her shoulder
toward her husband, a third-generation
rancher standing in the orchard, looking
up at his crop hanging like hundreds
of miniature suns amid so much greenery.

I introduce myself, say I used to work
for the paper in town long ago, name
my husband who did, too. She squints
and shades her eyes with a hand that,
I imagine, has picked its share of fruit,
not to mention capably dealt with
all manner of chores.

She blinks in recognition, asks,
“He a tall, dark-haired photographer?”

And when I say, yes, he was, I feel him
pop in as her eyes brighten. “He took
our picture, put us in the paper more
than once.” She pats her daughter’s hand.
“You remember him. Handsome fella.
He still livin’?”

And when I say, no, her face falls.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she says, as if it
happened yesterday instead of 23 years
ago in the tiny town I’m soon to drive through.
I thank her, ask the price of an overfull basket.

“Eight dollars,” says her daughter, offering
a bag to receive the ripe fruit.

When I proffer the bills, the farm wife
takes them and holds my fingers
for a moment. Our eyes smile at each
other as we think of husbands—mine
hovering nearby, as he does, hers still
hard at work well into his later years,
who looks my way and raises a hand
in greeting. I wave back and thank
the womenfolk, already talking
to new customers who’ve just
pulled up, as eager as I for
a sweet taste of summer.

•••

(With thanks to Jim and Deb Moehrke,
Vacaville friends for more than 40 years)