Big, round, ripe, juicy. He could see them from his window as he wrote and could almost taste them.
Every summer, the tree in his neighbor’s yard bore peaches. A rarity in his northern urban environment.
Birds and squirrels feasted daily.
Strangers stopped by and asked for some. He never did but yearned for pie.
Every year, the writer produced stories and novels. Millions devoured them.
Summer, 2020. No peaches.
No stories. No novels.
An ambulance. Surgery. Therapy.
“Give it time.”
Summer, 2021. Peaches returned.
Birds and squirrels feasted daily.
His bell rang.
“Glad you’re back. Made you a pie.”
Every summer, the tree in his neighbor’s yard bore peaches. A rarity in his northern urban environment.
Birds and squirrels feasted daily.
Strangers stopped by and asked for some. He never did but yearned for pie.
Every year, the writer produced stories and novels. Millions devoured them.
Summer, 2020. No peaches.
No stories. No novels.
An ambulance. Surgery. Therapy.
“Give it time.”
Summer, 2021. Peaches returned.
Birds and squirrels feasted daily.
His bell rang.
“Glad you’re back. Made you a pie.”
