© Bruce Goodman 21 July 2015
You’ve heard of the last rose of summer? Well, that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about the last pear.
Raewyn and Hendrik had planted a pear tree in the garden four years ago. They had nursed it, nurtured it, coaxed it. At last it had produced some fruit; three little pears. Raewyn and Hendrik had one each. They were delicious; ten times more so that they were out of their own garden. The third pear was rather blemished, and a little later to ripen than the others. Raewyn watched it every day. She was determined to pick it before the birds got it. But it wasn’t quite ready yet.
Three days ago she went out to check on it and it wasn’t there.
“Where’s the pear?” she asked Hendrik.
“It was blemished,” said Hendrik. “It probably had codling moth. I picked it and gave it to the chickens.”
Raewyn hasn’t spoken to Hendrik for three days. Hendrik needs to pop down to the florist and buy the last rose of summer.