My mother loved France because
the people believe in what they eat. 
Gentle rain falls on this cobblestone town
she never visited where my son and I, 
reminiscing, stumble uncomfortably
into a birthday memory  
of my worn-out mother 
wanting dinner at home 
but my sister-in-law fancying
a restaurant in another city. 
Says my son, all the ingredients 
were ready, so why did I fail
to stick up for my mother? 

I have no answer. She was too prickly 
to stick up for. I have no idea what
anybody could have said. It was years 
before resentment washed away. She loved 
the silence of the mountains. She came to Paris 
when she could. We talk past midnight
as the gentle rain continues to fall.
                        

Mr. Capuano, our apple man, 
arched his eyebrow and gave me a smile. 
He tended the bees and carried off our baskets. 

We liked him, but in the spring 
when the white blossoms came again 
we had a new apple man. 

Capuano didn’t have the legal right 
to sell to Ruta said my mother 
with a tight shake of her head. 

One Saturday afternoon 
when we returned from a swim, 
cars and trucks were parked 

all along the apple road. Ruta 
stood in the orchard surrounded by 
men in rumpled shirts, and tables 

that had appeared from nowhere 
loaded with food, and women 
in dresses with polka dots. 

It was a miracle: 
red wine in glasses, kisses, laughter, 
loud jokes, trees heavy with fruit. 

My father called Ruta from the crowd 
and had a quiet word. Ruta sneered   
and my father turned away. After that

every spring brought fewer blossoms 
as the white-painted beehives faded 
and grew empty. One spring they were gone 

and my father taught us to play baseball 
among the apple trees and poison ivy.