by Judy Darley
Our neighbour leaves them on the doorstep, paper-bagged against the sun. We peek inside and inhale their faint, wine-sweet smell. You mix the colour in the lid of your paintbox – red and blue blended with a whisper of green. I check my thigh and admire your skill – the paint’s the exact hue of yesterday’s deep-pinched bruise.
“You first,” you say, magnanimous, and I gobble one in three quick squelching bites. Juice explodes like rain in my mouth. Your lips shine as you devour another.
The rest we set on one edge of the tilted table-top inside the prettiest blue-glazed bowl still intact. With Mum’s best sable brushes, we daub the ripeness, the roundness, onto fine grained paper. You include long-stretched shadows that make me ooh.
Art class over, the next lesson on our fridge-tacked schedule is Sport.
My heart scrabbles in my chest.
Yesterday, I swept up shards and found disinfectant for your sliced thumb.
The plums are calm. They sit poised for the Fruit Olympics, alongside grapes and blueberries.
Ready to roll before Mum gets home
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