I never met a pear I didn’t like, on the palate or from the palette. No attempt at perfect apple roundness here, but rather defining its own shape as it flows smoothly from stem to base. Reds , greens, golds glimmer. Sweet, slightly tangy at times, but never disappointing. Rich textured flavor, not the here-today, mush- tomorrow of a peach, nor the long suffering ripeness of an apple. The pear—sublime for a time.
My mouth waters.
Four, a number of plenty. Rich reds and golden reflections hint at royalty. Perched on a golden shelf before a beckoning darkness.
Would that I had a wall for them. Hand-painted pears rich with color and fresh with leaf adorn my cabinet knobs. A simple primitive pear in a dark frame, rescued from a thrift store, watches over my refrigerator. Two more , an antique painting on a dark green round of wood with gilded sides, look down upon my stove. A perfect ceramic pear holds salt.
Across the room, a blue ribbon from the Cleveland County Fair dangles beneath the cross- stitched pear my daughter crafted.
I yearn for more.