Summer Anticipation

~ for k.i. ~
 
As summer arrives anticipation builds for our small plum crop on five acres in the Skagit.
We pray for bees.
 
I collapse under my eagerness and walk to the top of our long twisting driveway.
Five trees stand for nearly fifty years.
 
The crunch of loose gravel underneath our Keds as we run. Myself, and my two cousins - sisters.
A child’s excitement - plump as plums.
 
       “Are they ripe yet?! Can we go pick some yet?!” As we chide my dad and my uncle.
 
We pluck and eat vigorously. With the sun high, light would shine through the leaves, reaching through branches. Plums glow translucent. Purple visions - the hue of happiness.
 
Years later, in the Spring when the white plum blossoms were in full bloom a letter arrived from my oldest cousin.
 
      “I can’t wait to pick the plums again. That was always so fun.”
 
As summer approached plums began to mature – but her hand as soft as their skins would not pluck them. Although the sun did not shine as bright the light nourished the plums to ripen. Perhaps her spirit was reflected in that violent hue.
 
Each summer her anticipation lingers in my mind and heart heavy as I remember our tradition of plum picking. The climate is drier now and summer has lengthened. The sun has dimmed in wildfire smoke. As I reach high and watch the light dance across the dry leaves our hands grasp for a ripe plum. My hand plucks the purple vision from the branch and as I eat, I taste our prayer for bees. I taste dust and dirt. I taste the grain of gravel under our Keds.
 
As our pleas to pick echoes, her beauty darts around branches, shadow, and light.
 
My dad sold our home a few years back. And one season, my dear friend and former neighbor made jam from the same trees. As she handed me a jar, my words were caught up beneath the tight seal of the lid.
 
I cried as I opened summer anticipation.


Published in the poetry anthology, The Madrona Project: The Empty Bowl Cookbook, Vol. 6, No. 1, Empty Bowl Press, Jan. 2024, emptybowlpress.org

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