MEGHAN Holloway
Author, Librarian, Researcher
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Every now and then when I’m sorting the fruit to pack, I find it: the perfect peach. A blushing spherical duet of burgundy and gold that rests heavily in my palm. It would easily sell the over-priced quart of peaches if it were gently balanced and displayed on top of the carton. But I don’t pack it, as I should. Instead, I eat it, savor the burst of sweet sunshine, suck away the sticky juice that bleeds in rivulets over my fingers, consume fuzzed flesh and fruit until I reach the pit. Then I step outside, glance around to make certain no one has discovered my appropriation, toss the small, corrugated heart into the woods, and return to my careful inspection and methodical packing. This has become my surreptitious tradition.