I remember the day summer came during my eighth year. It was a hot day and the sun was already burning in the sky when I woke up to the rooster’s song. I shrugged into the purple and white flecked dress and quickly combed through the tangle of light brown hair that fell to my mid-back. Momma was already awake when I ran out of my room, hair still getting messy from my hurried movements, my apron still hanging on my door.

Momma just laughed and called me her little peach girl. She always said I’d be perfectly content living at the peach stand with my books and day-dreams and unkempt hair. I stopped and looked down at our wooden floor. “Sorry.” I moved close to my momma, who always smelled like dough and freshly cleaned clothes. She smoothed my hair and helped me fix my cap and apron.

Then I was off, running outside to the stand with the basket that held my conversations, the words I’d give to the tourists and travelers. I sold peaches individually and by the dozen. We also sold pies and homemade root beer.

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