Peaches
Dawsyn Adams
The peach sat on the counter,
too soft in one spot, its skin splitting
at the seam like a secret finally giving in.
I hadn’t meant to forget it.
It was one of those little fruits I swore
I’d eat when I bought it,
determined to be the kind of person who
buys produce and follows through.
But there it was now slumped slightly to one side,
bleeding juice onto the wood grain.
It smelled sweeter now than it had
a few days ago.
Stronger, riper, like it wanted to be known.
Like it was offering the last of itself
before going bad.
I pressed a fingertip into the soft bruise
and watched the dent stay,
unbothered by my touch.
The fruit didn’t rot all at once.
It started slow,
a quiet spot of surrender,
the first sign of softness.
But give it enough time and everything
folds inwards.
The skin puckers.
The sugar turns to vinegar.
It happens silently.
Just slow slipping into overripe.
I stared at it longer than I should have like
it might say something back.
I thought about how some things go bad before
you ever get the chance to enjoy them.
How easily something can go from perfect
to past its time.
How carelessness doesn’t always look like forgetting,
it can look like waiting.
Like thinking there’s still time.
Like planning to bite into something beautiful and realizing
you missed your moment.
Still, I didn’t throw it out.
Maybe I understood it too well.