1,787.7 miles north northeast

and 50 years later, I am in a supermarket.

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In a small crate, the apricots are nestled

between the first Jersey peaches and the plums,

and even under this cold artificial light,

I can tell they are still too hard and green.

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I take one in my hand, raise it to my nose.

Even in late summer here, when they’re blushed

red from the sun, they taste the way the one I hold now

smells, like nothing.

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I want them to taste of summer in Texas and 90 degrees

before noon, like the light in a backyard filtered through

leaves of a tree heavy with fruit.

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I want her hands, the age mine are now, to fold

around mine, to show me again

how they split apart at the seam when ripe.

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Just use your thumb like this. See?

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I squeeze the fruit gently, testing, knowing

even as I put it in the cart, it will disappoint, but hoping

anyway, maybe. Maybe this will be the one

that gets close enough.