fall fruit

 
I ate a pear this morning for breakfast and it tasted like fall.  We had a pear tree in our back yard when I was growing up.  The rotting pears always ended up smashed underfoot in the grass like an albino dog poop, or spilling in messy clumps from the dog's foul-smelling mouth.  This turned me off of pears for a very long time.  Then, in my twenties when I'd come home for the holidays, my father would store a beloved box of gifted pears in the garage.  Sometime mid-afternoon, bundled in his camel-colored cardigan, he'd ceremoniously make a trip to the garage and re-enter the house with two or three huge, beautiful pears.  He sliced them and presented them on a plate with the greatest of appreciation.  I couldn't resist.  Now, I love me a good, juicy pear and this morning as I ate, I wished I could cut one up for my father.