Under the gentle Mornag sun, a day of peach picking with the family

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Hello steemians,

On a radiant morning where the golden light of the sun filtered through the leaves of the fruit trees and gently caressed our faces still imbued with the freshness of dawn, we left the city and its hustle and bustle to join, with impatience mixed with tenderness, my father's farm, this haven of peace which, since always, represents for my children a place of inexhaustible discoveries and constantly renewed wonders, a natural setting where time seems to stretch gently to the rhythm of the seasons and where each tree, each stone, each hen nonchalantly pecking at the foot of the peach trees tells a precious story that only the earth can transmit to those who know how to listen.

As soon as we crossed the threshold of this family farm, nestled in the heart of the Mornag orchards, the boys, their eyes sparkling with a greedy curiosity and their legs impatient to tread this promised land, rushed between the rows of majestic trees, guided by the promise of a unique adventure, of a treasure to be discovered at the turn of each branch weighed down by the weight of velvety and juicy peaches, these fruits bursting with sunshine which, by their very sight, awaken the greed and simple joy of childhood.

My father, my children's maternal grandfather, was waiting for us under the soothing shade of an old peach tree, his straw hat sitting askew on his head and his kind smile illuminating his face, weathered by years spent cherishing and cultivating this orchard. It was with the infinite patience that only lovers of the land possess that he explained to them, taking care to weigh each word so that it would resonate with his grandchildren, how to assess the ripeness of the fruit, the softness of its downy skin, the firmness of its flesh and that delicately pinkish hue that testifies to its future flavor.

The boys, dressed in their colorful T-shirts, one proudly displaying the flamboyant Spider-Man logo, the other adorned in deep blue, set to work immediately, sliding their curious hands between the thick, glossy leaves to discover, almost like a well-kept secret, the hidden peaches just waiting for them to pick them, their crystalline laughter mingled with the rustling of the light wind, creating a rustic symphony that filled the air with a gentle, joyful energy, with each step, we trodden a carpet of ochre earth strewn with fallen fruit, already too ripe to be picked, giving off a heady scent that the hens, carefree and busy, seemed to appreciate just as much as we did, their silky brown and red feathers standing out against the emerald green background of the orchards, creating a vivid tableau where the harmony of nature was revealed in all its simplicity.

Under the watchful eye of their grandfather, the children, aware of the responsibility that fell upon them, delicately lifted each branch, stretched out their little arms to grasp the highest peaches, and sometimes, with a burst of laughter, let slip a rebellious fruit that rolled on the ground before joining the manna already harvested, adding to each gesture the unique flavor of effort and the pride of a job accomplished as a family.

The sun, which slowly continued its course in an immaculate sky, warmed our shoulders but in no way affected the ardor of the children, whose cheeks were rosy as much from the heat as from the enthusiasm that animated them, and I saw them, their eyes filled with stars, biting into these freshly picked fruits, the sweet juice dripping down their chins, and I understood that these simple and authentic moments would remain engraved in their memories well beyond this day. The blue plastic baskets, which we gradually filled, were soon overflowing with these plump peaches, their satiny skin glistening under the slanting rays of the sun, and it was as if each fruit, carefully gathered, symbolized the love that unites three generations under these protective foliage, an invisible and indestructible bond that is nourished by the earth, the laughter of children and the moved gaze of the grandfather.

At the end of the harvest, when arms began to tire and silence gently fell over the orchard, we sat, shoulder to shoulder, under the generous shade of the trees, savoring together some of these peaches still warm from the sun, while the hens, always faithful to their role as country companions, continued to peck quietly at our feet, indifferent to our bursts of laughter but participating, in their own way, in the poetry of this moment.

This day spent at grandfather's farm, between the caresses of the sun and the freshness of the leaves, was much more than a simple fruit harvest, It was a hymn to life, a praise of patience and transmission, an ode to the simple and generous beauty of nature which offers, to those who know how to love it, treasures far more precious than golden peaches, imperishable memories, suspended moments which form the fabric of the most beautiful family stories, and so, as we walked home, arms laden with baskets of fruit and hearts filled with gratitude, I knew that my children were taking with them much more than just sweet peaches, they were taking with them a part of their roots, a silent lesson in respect and pride, and the promise that each summer we would return here, under these kind trees, to pick again and again these treasures of the earth and the heart.

Best Regards,
@kouba01