The Peach Tree

They would ripen all at once under a hot sun and hang in a sugary glut only for a day or two before starting to spoil. I had to be quick and when the time came, I hurried home from school to clamber up the tree and seize the fruit. Each was a warm, engorged globe of flesh with just a hint of give when a finger was pressed into skin. No command, not even from God, could have held back a bite. Mouthfuls of sweet peach sent every pleasure bud on the tongue into a spasm and spilt the overload oozing out of the corners of stretched lips. Great gulps were hurried down the throat to make room for another bite. No savoring restraint held me back, this was volume. All afternoon my face and hands dripped a sticky syrup, coating my shirt. Finally I would have my fill and sit bloated beneath the tree surrounded by peachstones some still encased in leftovers of pinkish flesh. Sorry evidence to convict. Afterwards, a terrible remorse always took hold. Next day I thought my stomach ache was punishment from above. Every year of my childhood, in the heat of late summer, I repeated the same sin, suffered the same consequence, hoped for forgiveness from a wrathful God.