Carefully, warily,Sitting with my mom at the kitchen table.She peels quickly: in a few swift momentsOne twisted apple peel sits on the cutting board.I try to copy her, but no—The knife slips andCuts off a small chip of the red peel.Trying again, I get lost in the smell of the ripening fruit(Sweet, almost sickly sweet),Filling the room with a scent like my grandma’s house.And I start to remember the first timeThe first time I had her apple pie—I wrinkled my nose and said, “Too sweet!”(Now it’s my favorite dessert.)The first time I buttoned up my coatTo keep out the cold on an October day,The first time I read a bookTo my mother in broken, unsteady words,The first time I tied my shoeAfter hours of torture and trial—And as I think of this,I barely notice the one, perfect apple peelSitting on the cutting board in front of me.