So little to remember,
so why can't I forget
inside a Chevy wagon,
two bothers, sister,
one mom, pregnant,
one aunt, driving,
three cousins,
no daddy,
no uncle,
driving to Lodi to pick peaches,
tumbling into magical orchards
filling hillsides over a lake.

We picked peaches
from the trees,
and from the ground,
and from ladders.
"Don't eat them.
It's not fair."

Rules fell from trees.
Cousins packed them among peaches,
bushel after bushel.
Peaches waited - rotting.
Cousins ate - hiding.

Tired,
with only fruit to fill,
clambering back into the groaning wagon,
returning to hours of peach pitting
and rule pitching.