I sunk my teeth into a peach this morning. The anticipation was founded in a succulent piece of fruit last week, one that left my chin sticky. When I asked Ben what he wanted from Trader Joe's he, too, remembered. 

 

"Peaches."

 

But the taste was bland. Ripe peaches are a full experience of smell, taste, and texture. Unripe ones are disappointing. 

 

It is hard to translate a tactile sensation like peach flesh into syllables. If you have never actually eaten one, the effort is futile. No stack of paragraphs can be a substitute for a Georgia white. Even skillful writers like Roald Dahl and Sue Monk Kidd could not press the taste onto the page. James lived inside a peach, and thrived on its sweetness while flying over the ocean, but we are left with our mouths empty. Lily is forced to spend hours trying to peddle peaches, the kind I would pay handsomely for, in the book The Secret Life of Bees, but alas I can only dream of how they smelled.

 

Ripeness is itself a test of our patience. When we prioritize time over growth, we fool ourselves into rushing. Surely, plucking a basket full a week before they are ready will not matter. 

 

Ask a midwife what she knows about waiting for the right time.