ripe pears

This morning I stood in the kitchen while it was still dark, wintry white just beginning to seep into the low trees.  Maeve sat on the counter, as she does, head a hair below the bottom of the cabinets.  I picked up a pear whose skin looked like it had been painted dandelion yellow before the green wash went down.  I stood cutting one thin slice at a time, the way I learned watching my grandmother cut apples, knife toward her thumb.  The slippery white pieces trickled juice down Maeve's hand as she shoved them in her mouth, Maeve who shakes her little head at the suggestion of any food beyond milk, bananas, and stoned wheat thin crackers.  This morning, she didn't refuse, and together we ate a pear, one slim slice at a time, while the house slept above us.