The commute to the yard is twenty-two minutes down Old Bayou Road, and it's the only quiet hour I get.
I do the crossword in two pens—blue for the sure ones, black when I'm stuck. I think of you whenever I hit a clue about something that grows.
You ran the fruit stand at the bend where the levees start. The day the first peaches came in, you waved me over.
You handed me a paper bag and said, "These are the ones you wait all year for." I didn't know what to say. I just bought two pounds and kept driving.
I became someone who stops for peaches on a Tuesday. Who pulls over for a woman who knows the difference between a good crop and a great one.
Alone now, fifty-two, I notice things I used to speed past. Your apron—always the same shade of blue as my pen.
I finished that crossword in black and thought: some questions don't need the answer right away.