Platz || Karin Simmons

The soft sweet fruit, some still on the branches, others already fallen.
Juice dripping, sticky fingers, gathering and collecting the prized plums knowing that Grandmother would do her magic. The basket isn’t quite full yet but she calls - the dough is ready!
Running back to the porch, the screen door slams shut behind me and my flip flops flip flop into the air.
Her hands are doughy and floured as she tenderly takes and begins slicing the purple skins onto the crust. A sprinkle of sugar, a dollop of butter and into the oven it rests ’til it’s ready.
The sweet smell of dessert and kindness mingle and when it’s finally ready, the wrinkled hand that passes the plate of goodness is goodness itself.