Off and On the Dirt Path

It’s ripe. You pluck it easily from the branch, the sides of it soften around your hand. There are others, lining the bottom of the tree, too soft. Their insides mushy and beginning to grow a layer of white that will later turn green. Others have holes in them, treats for opossums and armadillos and squirrels and other tiny, tiny things. The tree is hidden off the dirt road. Right behind the blue shed that we drive past to get home. A woman lived here once, in the tiny cobalt thing. A couch sits in the yard, facing the shed, under the black walnut trees.

We used to think her a witch when we were little enough to muse about the things that mattered to be mused about. 

The shed peaks through the trees, and you can see it from the road through branches. Once we saw the woman wafting a fire she burned in a metal barrel into the air. It was brief. We were riding in the bed of Uncle’s truck. Uncle was drunk. He drove us through potholes, swerved, and definitely went over the speed limit. He’d even given you a cigarette. We were too brittle and when I had a puff of that cigarette, I had to hang my head over the side to avoid scooping stomach acid out of the ridges in the metal.

I ask you about that time. The woman, sending the smoke into the air.

“Didn’t Uncle tell you? It was a signal.” 

You pluck your own peach from the tree and take a bite. The bite is so big, juice drips down your chin. When you pull away, I can see you’ve already made it to the pit. You motion to the peach in my hand. I take a bite, now, penetrating the skin. The juice threatens to drip down my face, but I pull away quickly and let it fall to the ground. The fuzz coats my top lip. 

We are here because the woman no longer lives here. We know because we stopped seeing the changes through the branches. Clothes no longer hung to dry, and her small sedan no longer sat in the yard. The barrel is still here though, midway between the couch and the shed. 

With the peach still in your hand, you walk over to the front of the shed, picking up walnuts with your other hand. 

“Signal for what?” I call to you. I find myself following quickly in your footsteps. You’re rubbing the walnuts in your hand together like they’re marbles. Their hard shells graze each other rhythmically. 

“I don’t know,” you say, pausing to take another bite of the peach. “Maybe for us.” Your mouth is full. You sit on the couch. It’s covered in leaves and dirt and God knows what else. You look up to the trees above, the light coming through the leaves painting shapes across your face.

Every time we drove past the shed, I kept my eyes peeled. Looking for a cauldron or pointy hat. Uncle had told me witches weren’t really like that. Even though I knew she really couldn’t have been a witch, I always thought it odd to live outside of town in a shed. But we lived outside town too, just in a double wide. 

Sometimes when Uncle was too drunk, you’d take me outside. We’d sit on the porch and I’d think about how out in the open we were. How the woman could walk down the dirt path and cast her spell. Do her magic. Send a signal. It was too hopeful, then, it seemed. Really, it was just enough.

“Come on,” you say, getting up off that dirty couch. Your peach is gone and you toss the pit into the trees. “Let’s head out. Should we grab a peach for Uncle?” 

We do take one. I walk with it between my hands. The fuzz comes off on my fingers. I rub my pointer and thumb together and it hurts a bit. You trudge in front of me along the dirt, kicking up dust with your heavy steps. When we make it back to our double wide, I hand you the peach. You don’t say anything. You go inside to give it to Uncle. I know he’s lying on the couch, sick. I stay out, just not ready yet. The sun is setting and the tops of the trees bathe in orange. Looking down the dirt path, back to where the shed lies, I think I see smoke.