She is Cherry Wood.

Deep and rich, yet somehow bright—like ripe cherries hanging heavy from the branches beneath a summer sun.

She is slipping on a sundress before heading to the orchard, reaching through green leaves for the darkest cherries and eating a few before they ever make it into the basket. She is stained fingertips and laughter carried between the rows.

She is the sweet smoke of cherry wood curling from a slow-burning fire, wrapping itself around something that’s been cooking for hours. That unmistakable sweetness drifting through the yard before you ever see where it’s coming from.

She is folding tables covered in food.

Bare shoulders warmed by the sun.

Someone laughing too loudly.

And an argument that has absolutely happened before about who actually made the potato salad this time.

She isn’t complicated. She doesn’t need to be.

Because some things aren’t beautiful because they’re elaborate. They’re beautiful because somehow, without asking permission, they remind you of somewhere you’ve been, someone you’ve loved, or a moment you didn’t realize you’d miss until it became a memory.

Slipping into her,

she feels familiar.

She is warmth.

She is bitter, yet sweet.

Cherries ripened on the branch.

The sweet scent of smoked cherry wood carried on the summer breeze.

She is memory.

She is Cherry Wood.