I just ate a peach.
Not just any peach, but the last of the peaches that Doug brought back with him from Ohio. He had purchased a nice, full, overflowing bag of them from an Amish farm near Salem when he went to see his grandmother the day after he dropped Jess off at college last week.
We made short work of the bag, enjoying one or two a day each and basking in the glory of the flavor and texture of these gems. A napkin or paper towel was mandatory while eating them lest peach juice flow down the hand and arm.
On Thursday, I placed the last peach into the refrigerator, fully believing that Geoff would eat it after football practice. He didn't. He said he doesn't like them cold, and didn't want to wait for it to warm up. So it sat there until just now when I decided that if I didn't take it, it may go bad sitting in there by itself.
It was freezing cold, juicy beyond imagination. Napkin at hand I finished it off, the ripe flesh falling away from the stone core.
Now I am sad because grocery store peaches are sad, horrible rocks in comparison to these beauties, and I refuse to buy them. I want another giant bag of peaches straight from the Amish farm in Ohio.
And I have this sense that summer is over.