We spend the morning wandering the farmers market in south city.
Crowds of people, stacks of local fruits and vegetables, meats, cheeses.
Odd wares for sale.
We buy a bag of peaches and hold them gingerly,
smelling the sweetness of their fuzzy skin.
The woman says honey, these will be the best peaches y’all have ever eaten.
Stand at the booth with a curious machine that makes tiny donuts:
a ring of dough into the hot oil, a float down the little frying river
on the first narrow lock, down into the second lock
and flipped out onto the pile of soft, golden brown circles.
A shake of powdered sugar.
We take our small glassine bag and go to eat and people watch.
Outside in the courtyard, Ada is rapt with a young man performing for a small crowd.
He jumps fifteen feet in the air on a pogo stick and juggles bowling pins.
Later, in the kitchen as the sun streams in the window, I cut up one of the peaches:
a bite for her, a bite for me.
And the woman did not lie,
and together we talk about the boy who jumped so high,
and the donuts floating down the tiny river,
and the glistening apples
stacked tall in a perfect pyramid.