“Mom, the peaches are ready to eat!” You’d say, licking your lips. “Let’s get them before the birds do.”
Ten years have passed since then, and now memories flood my mind as I stand underneath the green canopy. With my disheveled hair and your red sweatshirt draped over my sunken shoulders, I’m a living scarecrow.
I scatter your ashes over the soil. There is a rush of wings above as birds feasting on the ripe fruit fly away in alarm, leaving silence behind.