The word peach makes me feel like summer.
I love that.
Maybe it’s the colour: dappled orangey, yellowy, red—to me, that colour sings. Just like summer.
It could also be the many hundreds of peaches I’ve slurped down over my thirty-something summers that give the word peach that summer feeling. Sticky fingers and dribbles down the chin—loving every minute, hating every minute, too.
No wonder those classic summer fruits have chiseled a feeling into my bones.
The word peach; the visual peach; the feeling…
Surely it’s not just me that feels it.
It’s the power of words, right?
Fascinating, isn’t it, that when we know a language so well we barely even think about the words that come tumbling out of us, and yet they paint our whole world.
Lately I’ve been wondering: why do certain books make me feel down to the very core, whilst others just make me smile?
I think I know one reason.
And the magic they puff up, and around, and all over us.
Cocktail by the pool, anyone?