That Terry

O, how you filled

my baby days with sticky

sweet-tasting pureed pears,

strained through the family sieve.

The yellow-skinned fruit

with the spherical base

and tapered top

that you would skin

with your sharp knife.

 

How we laughed

when the cat played with the peel,

pawing it through the air,

while I sat strapped

in the high-chair,

my mouth shaped in

the smallest O,

my eyes wider than the

years between us.

 

My mouth a hangar,

the spoon of pears a plane

that zipped though the air,

each swallow followed by a laugh.

 

How our memories linger in the air,

mingle with the smell of pears

strained for the

dark O of your old lips.

 

I was never as strong as you;

even now I find it hard to

take my turn and strain the pears,

raise the spoon to your mouth.

 

You were the one who told me

never to pick pears.

You said wait and they would

fall when they were ripe.

I used to stand under the trees

staring up at the pears

with my hands cupped

waiting to catch them

before they hit the

ground to prevent them

being damaged by the fall.

 

I touch your falling face,

feel your gentle breath

as warm as summer rain

caress my cheek,

I raise my eyes to yours,

wrap my hands around your

breath and hold on tight.

 

Mary D’Angelo

 

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