Apple Skin

The knife slid,

a clean curve,

peeling red from white,

a single ribbon,

unbroken,

falling to the board.

It was her hand,

doing it.

My own fingers,

bent the same way,

the careful pressure,

the angle of the wrist.

A small inheritance.

I look at them now,

my hands,

so like hers,

the knuckles beginning

to tell stories

of a different kind of work,

but the same old reach.

And the apple,

smooth and pale,

a core of memory.