Pears
by Zu Vincent
We called about our plumbing and he came
sick with cancer. Determined, he struggled to the floor
rolled on his back, reached under our sink. Arms
stick and bone, shirt soaked, limbs resisting, he
pulled things apart, wielding wrench, pipe
connections like a complex puzzle, strangely stuck
in a once familiar place. His wife had been canning,
sent us two jars of pears he’d placed on the counter.
They rested now, above him, pear halves hugging
palm over palm, put up for winter, waiting to be opened,
their sweet juice enjoyed,
once he’d gone.
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