I walked hand-in-hand with my seven-year-old daughter through Pike Place Market. It was crowded with locals and tourists alike. We paused at the Pike Place Fish Market to watch the workers chuck an enormous Copper River King Salmon. I’d seen them toss fish for years, and they never missed the catch. Passersby smiled and recorded the everyday antics with their cellphones.

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It was a hot August afternoon, perfect for people-watching and sampling different foods. We each tasted the local honey and learned about its effects on seasonal allergies. I bought a small jar. We tasted the pepper jelly. It was spicy and sweet. We meandered down the jam-packed aisleway, and a petite woman in a Def Leppard tee shirt and cutoff shorts extended her tray of chopped peaches. She removed the domed top, and we each grabbed a toothpick and stabbed our juicy selection.

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“Mmmmm!” my daughter exclaimed. “It’s good.”

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I smiled, grateful that she didn’t have to bite into the fruit. She was missing her top two teeth.

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I placed my peach bite under my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. My mouth began to water, and I popped the sweet fruit into my mouth. A little piece of fuzzy skin lodged itself between my front teeth, and when I smiled, my daughter laughed and pointed it out. I tried to dislodge it with my tongue, then used my toothpick instead.

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“Wow! That tastes just like summer,” I said. “Let’s take a few home with us.”

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My daughter selected four large peaches that had been picked in Yakima early in the morning and transported fresh. We stepped outside the market and took the sidewalk to Victor Steinbrueck Park. A jazz band was playing, and people gathered to listen, eat lunch, and enjoy the sunshine.

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We spread our tattered beach towel on the ground and plopped down in a shady spot with dappled sunlight. I dug my water bottle out of my backpack and took a large peach from the paper sack. I rinsed it as best I could, but the fuzz repelled it, sending rivulets down into the grass. I twisted the peach to remove its pit and handed half to my daughter. A bee immediately smelled the sweet juice and hovered nearby.

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Summer was coming to an end, and soon, my daughter would be starting second grade. I watched her now as she lost herself in the soothing rhythmic performance. She sat fixated on the band and didn’t even notice that she struggled to bite the fruit. Juice dribbled down her chin, her hands, and her elbows.

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I smiled and bit into my half of the peach, savoring every moment of that sweet and sticky summer day.

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It struck me then—how many chances we receive each day to slow down, notice, and feel the world around us. Sometimes, all it takes is a ripe peach, good music, and the company of someone you love.