I have asked him to tell it—how br he heard the curing barn took hours br br to burn, the logs thick, accustomed br to heat—how, even when it was clear all br br was lost, the barn and the tobacco br fields within it, they threw water br br instead on the nearby peach tree, br intent on saving something, sure, br br though, the heat had killed it, the bark br charred black. But in late fall, the tree br br broke into bloom, perhaps having br misunderstood the fire to be br br some brief, backward winter. Blossoms br whitened, opened. Peaches appeared br br against the season—an answer, br an argument. Word carried. People br br claimed the fruit was sweeter for being br out of time. They rode miles to see it. br br He remembers my grandfather br saying, his mouth full, this is br br a sign, and the one my father br was given to eat—the down the same, br br soft as any other, inside br the color of cream, juice clear br br as water, but wait, wait; he holds br his cupped hand up as though for me br br to see again there is no seed, br no pit to come to—that it is br br infertile, and endless somehow.