The Apricotless Year 

There will still be pistachios, that is what everyone says, but the mood is dampened. Other years are remembered.

We had barely begun to remember and anticipate the excellent perfume and gentle acidity, when, with one hard spring frost, the apricotless year came upon us.

Anticipating the sapor of apricot, sweet-tempered provocation, beguiling us with honey, lemons and orange blossoms, buried in fruit meat, on a late summer day, when the white laundry all came clean, flapping in the wind getting bleached. Not a single bird shat on any part of our clothes and bedding that we pulled off the line. We didn’t accidentally fold a giant cicada into the pillow case and bring it back into the house where it would emerge, a whirring, circular, winged surprise, and wake up the baby.

It was only an apricotless year. The apricots would be back. They would be back, next year, when all of the glass jam jars are polished. We will eat so many, there will almost not be enough left to dry and store or stir into a few yeasted cakes, late the following winter. It is only an apricotless year, so, look, at the frozen flowers on the branches. They make our hearts ache, but it will still be spring and there will be a few stalwart tulips. When it gets warmer, there will be bare feet in the dust, then in the stream. The water will reflect the twinkle in our eyes when we step out wet, laughing, even if there is laundry to do. We will hang the laundry between the apricot trees in the orchard. The laundry will shake its shoulders about and kick up the heels of its socks. The nightgowns will dance with lightness, even the flannel ones, there, as we nap beneath the freshness of next year.