They Stole the Peaches

Prose: Asking is A Part of Honoring

I am currently in a herbalism program in which I will get my certification this upcoming October. One of the first things we did in my program was to identify a plant partner to walk this journey with. I chose a peach tree just beginning to flower in my new backyard. That was back in May & now something disheartening has happened. Something I grieved, processed, & peeled back to write this piece. Below, you will find a prose piece about this event, the lessons, & tensions I am holding as a result of this beautiful program. Additionally, the format of this piece is best viewed on your desktop. The social preview image you see is of renowned herbalist Emma “Little Medicine Thing” Dupree gathering goldenrod. Lastly, please enjoy this audio of me reading the piece out loud.

“I’m a dirt person. I trust the dirt.” - Earth Kitt, Ebony Magazine, 1993

They stole the peaches. The tree I witnessed make fruit from flowers dancing on stilt stems transformed to June turmeric maroon orbs. I walked outside & saw elongated teardrop leaves drooping with grief. They gathered the peaches? Each one plucked away—not yet fully ripe—separated from brown limbs of nourishing protection. They stole the peaches. And the nutrients don’t stop running & back into itself—it takes time, time to realize the bounty you gave everything to has left a vacuumed pocket picked for being worthy. They gathered the peaches? I didn’t mind the broken fence that sunk inwards like a peach’s indented valley. I didn’t mind the heavy footfalls on land where my weary kin rested. While their upward arms stretched to twist & disturbingly snap stomate—brown limbs torn from golden possibility. They stole the peaches. And I did mind that they didn’t ask me & they didn’t bother asking the tree.

Don’t shake me loose of flesh that is my flesh

                                                                                Don’t rob me—free of mine

I don’t mind that the white lattice border of security failed its functionality but I mind the trampling of soft blades of grass. They stole all the peaches & I mind that they didn’t ask the land or me. Shook em all out in glutinous greed & I would not have minded sharing or stealing a few. But heavy steps mimic top predators & minimize smaller-sized allies to display a wax mask of pride. They gathered all the peaches? And I think about Harriet’s apple orchard of blazing red defiance—to indulge in that which her hands grew & was forbade to touch. They gathered all the peaches my hands grew/no asking/in July/probably two by two/root to fruit. They stole all the peaches before Grandma’s cobbler was made—no asking, & now I wonder who all over there, disrupting rooted ways of being

                                                                                 land recipes &

                                                                                 sunken shady valleys of  respite

eyes left w i d e, peach pit pupils

covering up all the white.

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