the pear tree

in nineteen seventy eight
john and I were
working in a yard
bordered by a brick wall
on three
sides.
a wooden gate
with a black iron latch
led out to the street,
Jefferson davis highway.
perched on ladders,
we leaned
into the house and moved
our brushes
onto windows,
boards,
soffits, trim.
clean even strokes
as one hand gripped
the rung
of the aluminum ladders.
beside us, between
us was a pear tree
in full bloom, pears as
ripe and green as
pears could be.
we grabbed one,
and ate, then another.
take all you want, the owner
said. he was
done with pears, done
with these trees,
the fruit that would fall
and rot on his bricked patio.
we ate our fill, john
and I.
last year john died,
but I remember him
with every pear I've ever
seen since then, every bite
reminding me
of us together
being young and strong,
our friendship
never waning.