Peaches

Not two minutes ago, my phone rang. It was my grandma, my mother’s mother who lives in Cerritos, about thirty minutes away.

“Where are you?” she asked, not bothering to say hello.
“I’m at home.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing, just reading.”
“Well, are you going to pick the peaches in the backyard?”

I knew exactly what she was worried about, and without missing a beat I assured her that I had picked some peaches yesterday, but that my father had given them to my aunt last night when he went over to play ping pong.

“There are more peaches on that tree,” my grandma said pointedly.
“Of course there are, and I shall pick them tomorrow and bring them to you on Friday.”
“Well, if you don’t have time to pick them, I’ll go over and pick them myself.”

I rolled my eyes, wondering how in the world she planned on doing this, but of course she had no such plan. Of course I would pick them and of course I would bring them over, just as she wanted me to. She was calling to make sure I would clean out the tree so none of the fruit would go to waste.

“Don’t let them rot on the tree,” she said, “Those are good, sweet peaches.”
“I know, Grandma. I’ll pick them all and bring them to you on Friday.”
“Good. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” I assured her and began to say goodbye, but the line was already dead. My Grandmother never says goodbye on the telephone.

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