It must have been forty years ago, my brother and sisters, our mom and dad, gathered around the fat television before our Saturday supper to watch my skinny father make the evening news. Earlier that slow news day at the Atlanta Farmers Market, the camera crew had discovered him buying a bushel of peaches and a watermelon. He thumped the melon and mugged for the camera: Sweet as your mother’s love, he said. Around the TV we howled how a family can howl, so proud of his wit and our fame, his name on the banner below. Overcast today, the end of February, and my two peach trees have blossomed early here in my front yard in our Texas college town, these pink, daytime stars surreal and sexy against the gray. I think of him now and that peach-swollen heat of a Georgia summer, how sometimes he would buy us fruit by the bushel, how a few years later he left my mother and married one of her best friends. But that one night of my father’s stardom, it was family night. We stayed up till eleven, bowed to the television, and watched the news for the second time. My father, he said it again, Sweet as your mother’s love, and we lost it.