I had washed the peaches, they were washed.

The peaches, in a still-life. A Cézanne, I’ve said it before.

But Cézanne’s peaches weren’t cling peaches. I see that now. Cézanne’s peaches have a dark pink, a red, bloom. Our peaches did not. But this is only something I think about now.

And I carried the bowl down the grass, to Joseph’s room.

I SEE IT: February, a hot, still day. Josias was sweeping, sweeping the pool, the leaves, lifting the leaves out, the debris that fell from the overhanging trees. The children still at school. The dogs not out, they must have been sleeping in the backyard, their bowls, the flies, alongside. And Emily on her afternoon break, in her room. Did Emily lie down on her high bed, her bed raised on the bricks I had seen and knew, her worn brown shoes alongside on the stone floor, her plump frame: resting at last?

I, my pale legs, my sandals. My cotton skirt and blouse. My hair, my dark hair, smoothed over my shoulder.

Carrying the bowl, the wooden bowl, my two hands, I feel now the smooth wood, the weight, the roundness of the bowl, the fruit, walking carefully down the grass, the small hill, and into the trees, into the trees, at last.

And under the trees, a hidden place. I had to put the bowl down on the step, to knock on the door.

And the soft sound of the knock, some birds, a faint rustle of leaves. That’s all.

Joseph: there at once, in his doorway.

His white shirt. Of course, his white shirt. Or perhaps that’s only as I remember it. Memory plays tricks. The white shirt was the one I liked best.

I’ve brought you some peaches, I said, as I bent down to pick up the bowl. I stood holding the bowl in front of me. I think he was astonished.

I can’t eat all those peaches, he said, and he laughed softly, thank you so much.

And I thought: yes, how could he eat all those peaches, this is a bowl for a family, a bowl for a house-full of people. And then: Joseph would get sick if he ate too many of them, he probably hasn’t eaten much fruit in a while. And then: why had I not told Emily to bring him fruit before? I had thought of the basics: bread; milk; eggs. Protein. Once I had told Emily to take apples. So many ridiculous thoughts like this passed through my mind, but then he took the bowl, that beautiful dark wood bowl, from me, and turned with it into the room.

Come in, he said. And I stepped in.

I haven’t had cling peaches in a while, he said. Such a treat. A treat: such a strange word, from him.

And I said, they’re from the Free State, you know. The Unfree State you mean, he said, and laughed. I said nothing.

The door was still open behind me, I felt the dappled trees, their greenness, their gentle rustling sound. I felt, suddenly, as though I was in a bower, I felt the trees and their greenness were themselves in the room with me, around me, in a soft embrace.