I was freezing peaches and I looked down at my finished work.

The ripe and slightly over-ripe scraps, skins and pitts sat in one bowl.

The freshly-sliced, pinky-orange pile of summer stared back at me from the counter in another black and white bowl.

I remembered, suddenly, that I had been here before.

In the evening, when the rest of the day’s work was done, preserving.

Once before, I had stood and sliced.

I even used this exact wedding-gift bowl, a July or two ago.

Freezing Georgia’s summer to warm our Dakota winters with peach cobbler.

I washed off the sticky juice and breathed in the musty, too sweet smell of peaches.

It all mixed in with a familiarity I hadn’t felt in years.

{For Laurel, thanks for encouraging me to find a bit of time for this space again.}