A Life of Fruit and Flowers by Carol Barrett
Image | Magda Ehlers A Life of Fruit and Flowers My sister’s life could topple like a ladder in the orchard my father planted, a few late apples hiding in tall grass. Rains will turn their sweet pulp to burnt amber, bees will converse about their fragrant finds. She is wedded to antiques, dolls of sackcloth and sawdust, cornhusk dolls, china dolls in layered pinafores and laced bonnets, copper kettles, christening outfits, carved thimbles. Her flowery porcelain basins with pitchers to match symbolize all that is clean, hands of the ancestors forever awash in memory, rings sparkling as embroidered tea towels pat them dry. Her walls are pinned with hand-painted plates – peaches and pears gleaming, fistfuls of grapes. And roses – myriad shades of pink brighten her halls, hanging above each doorway, inviting entrance to the task within, gold rims glistening. My sister says she is tired now, needing her daughter-in-law’s a...
