The mother wanders along the twisting vines of her garden in what was once the third Painted Lady on Steiner Street. They say these homes were more beautiful once, but it seems to the mother that they have exhaled and relaxed into a dream. The sight of them takes her breath before it can leave her mouth. 

As she walks, the basket on her arm grows heavier as it fills with fruit. Obliging branches unfurl before her and drop glowing plums, raspberries and oranges into the basket, each one letting off a sigh as it falls. Later, she’ll boil the citrus in a syrup and scoop the candied orange slices out one at a time, just as soon as they break the surface with a soft pop. 

Once her family is gathered around the table, they’ll sip of the elixir together. Traded stories will give way to poems, long meandering chronicles punctuated with interruptions and laughter. Day passes into night. The robed moon even comes down for her fill, she who never forgets the mother’s magic emulsion.