Cut apricot on table with seed. Photo by Olia Nayda.
I recently rediscovered the word apricot. Three syllables ap-ri-cot with that juicy “pree” sound in English ending with a lilting, cutting consonant. In Spanish apricot is albaricoque (Ahl-bah-ree-koh-keh) and just as delicious, a short tapateo flamenco on the wooden table. Ahl-bah-ree-kok-keh. Say it.
I met a writer I cherish. I’ve read two of her three memoirs, one of her novels, a 1990 star-cast movie. The writer and I were brought together by a common friend, a lunch meet over hearts of palm and fusilli Bolognese at a café on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The writer was wearing a peach colored dress with a soft round scoop and a row of large white buttons down the front. Feminine. No fuss. A New York City writer (no black!)
I’ve been trying to write about this experience (I’d worried I’d be awed and speechless) but I am stuck on the word apricot, which makes my mouth water but conveys something very different than peach. More tart, a little brighter, more perishable. If I don’t write I don’t exist. Did she say this or did I?
The writer’s eyes took a measure of me. I felt her eyes linger. Then she looked down quickly. Was she shy?
But apricot is not the color she wore. I must save the word for a poem where I am not cornered into speaking ordinary truth.
What has felt comforting and real during this Covid year have been moments with family, even if the moments have been remanufactured by way of our devices. And, with communities of writers struggling to write, poets coming together to share poems we are building, listening carefully, opening our hearts to meaning.
Writing grounds me. But I’ve been having difficulty with coherent thoughts, connecting the dots between moments. Finding organizing principles, a way to move forward. I don’t think I’m alone.
If we are lucky, we’re beginning to come out of our self-imposed caves. The world looks and feels different. Where do we fit? How do we contribute?
“Sometimes just holding a pen in my hand and writing milk butter eggs sugar cane calms me.”
—Abigail Thomas, beloved American memoirist
Upcoming Events
I’ll be reading with other local authors at the Scarsdale Library on the subject of “Love in All Its Forms.” If you have a small window on Tuesday, July 20 at 7:30, join us. You can sign up here.
On Monday, July 26, 8 to 9 pm I and another author will talk about our books for the wonderful Scribblers on the Roof Literary Series at Ansche Chesed synagogue that happens every summer. I had been scheduled for summer 2020 on the roof terrace that didn’t happen, and I’m excited to participate now. This year it will take place on Zoom. If you can, please join us.