Photo & Poem: Rich

 

Our family farm was leased from the man
who owned the car dealership in town. Once
or twice a year, he came up our driveway in
the latest model, looking important wearing

pressed trousers and a tie, to drink black
coffee with my father. They talked about
crop prices on the farm report and cursed
thunderstorms at harvest time. In the winter

the man and his family went to vacation in
Florida, sometimes bringing us oranges and
one year a pineapple that made our tongues
raw. Heady fruit for proud farmers who ate

only what they could grow. Us kids were
told to stand and say, “Thank you, Sir.” My
parents called the man Rich. I was half-grown
before I understood it was his real name, not

just that sort of fancy man my father bitterly
resented, especially after we lost the farm and
moved to town, where grocery stores sold pink
grapefruit and tangerines the whole year-round.

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

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Anna Blake

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