my eyes are blue - identical orbs to yours which reflect the sun floating in through the curtain. you have perfect pitch but never minded my tone deafness when we cooked and baked side-by-side - your blueberry muffins always melting so sweetly in my mouth; I still can't get them to turn out like you did - what was your secret?
through the quiet, moonlit, summer night, I can hear a song floating out of the kitchen window, one from my daughters' favourite musical - something about memory. beside me, my dad coughs and stands up.
he walks toward the edge of the orchard bordering the lawn. I follow him and arrive as he’s polishing an apple on his shirt.
“so Tom, how’s the orchard going?” he asks, taking a bite.