Little Pear

My mother loves peaches. She always said they were the sweetest fruit. She thought they were cute, with fuzzy, pink skin. She said that peaches kept her skin looking youthful and dewy. She called my baby sister “Little Peach” so often that she responded to that more than her own name. She had the skin that wouldn’t tan, and the hair that curled into ringlets easily. She was bubbly and bright; a sweetheart of sorts. I was heavier than my sister, I had spots and moles, and there was something about the way I spoke that made people sneer at me. I was always being told to watch my mouth, but I could never see my lips. She called me “Little Pear”.

In the heat of the summer, our mother would make fruit salad. Apples, oranges, peaches, and watermelon. She would never put in pears. She said they were an ugly fruit with a terrible texture. I wouldn’t know, I’d never tried them before. Mother always ate the peaches first. She would sit on the back veranda in her rocking chair and savour the pieces she picked from the bowl. We were shaded from the hot sun by the cheap plastic cover, but the grass in the yard turned brown under the heat. Juice would run down her chin, and she would let it. She said it was good for her skin.

My sister and I would sit on the concrete. It was rough on our skin, but our mother didn’t give us an outdoor chair. We would eat the apples, oranges, and watermelon. Peach let the juices sit on her mouth, but I always wiped them away. Maybe if I didn’t, they would soak in and make my skin dewy and spotless like hers, but I hated the sticky feeling on my lips and chin.

When I was ten, my Nana started feeling sick. She was eighty, and had worked on a farm for a long time. My Pa was already dead at that point, so it was just her. She was alone in a big house with a fruit garden in the back. We started to visit more regularly. It didn’t make much sense to me. Nana just seemed tired. She looked like she wanted to sleep all the time while we were there, but my mother still made us go visit, which made her want to make biscuits and lunches for us. It seemed to me like visiting her just made her sicker in the long run.

Peach and I started to spend our time in the backyard so our mother and nana could talk. It was boring adult stuff that we didn’t care about. We would go out the back and pick as much of the fresh fruit off her trees and vegetables from her garden as we could. Then, when the sun started to set, we’d go back with our baskets of food, and nana would clean them, slice up the fruit, and make fruit salad. She always left out the pears.

One day, our mother left Peach and I with our nana. She didn’t explain herself to us, she just told us to behave and not bother nana. I think she was worried nana would die in the night and wanted someone there to call her if that happened. She made sure we had her number and the number for emergency services before she left.

That was the first time I tried a pear. Nana cleaned and cut one for the three of us to share. She said they were her favourite, but she never bothered serving them up when my mother was there, because she would complain about them. It was sweet, but it was firmer than most fruits so it didn’t gush juice all over my chin and hands. The rough texture against my tongue was a pleasant surprise. I looked up to my nana with wide eyes and she could tell I had found my new favourite food.

As the summer turned cold my nana needed more care. I started going in every day after school while Peach and our mother went home. I would help her with cleaning, tidying, and cooking. When it was nice out, we would sit and drink tea together outside in the sun, but when it was cold, we would sit inside and read or watch cartoons. She was always worried I would feel bored, but I liked pretending to be a grownup with her.

Autumn became winter, which became Spring, and soon it was summer again. I spent most afternoons at nana’s house, even on the weekends. The heat of the sun felt different here, even if it wasn’t far from home. I started to pluck the ripe pears from the tree, and nana and I would sit together and eat them. We sat side by side on the outdoor chairs and watched the birds land in the garden. The early season pears were hard and rough, but they were still sweet. The juice was delicious, but didn’t run a sticky trail down my chin. I never did figure out why my mother had such a problem with pears to begin with, but I didn’t mind her calling me one anymore.