Sweetness

In Sweetness, Lucy Tomov writes a gentle poem from an old memory of an apricot tree that grew in her neighbour's garden.

Like art for penniless. (Image: WIX)

As I get older 

I feel my own 

misguided sentimentality caught in 

the apricots which years ago

hung from our neighbour's tree, 

like art for the penniless.

We always began the operation 

in the soft worn palms 

of my father's hands 

as he turned the fruit 

over in the metal mixing bowl.

Cold water was best to wash with,

a serrated knife was best to cut with,

the smaller half was best to eat first.

He pretended not to look when 

my tiny sisters snatched up whole fruits and 

cackled. Their blonde curls catching sunset, 

their faces stuffed with sweetness and glee.

Once the mess was made, 

he'd bring out paper towel 

to dab at our lips and 

say gently, you grubby little girls! 

All the while 

we'd be playing cymbals with the pits.

The orchestra we conducted, 

the ritual so delicious,

the stains unimportant.

He belonged to us; we belonged to him.

Oh, apricots.

Oh, springtime.

Oh, our dad slicing fruit for us

in the twilight dim.