Found Note (dated March 23, 2015)

I remember the oranges. I remember Tempe’s morning humidity – a residue from the fog of dawn. We had just eaten breakfast and were walking back to your aunt’s shack in the University District. I remember my place in all of it – an alteration of something familiar. It was day one and the lingering what if’s and whys hung like the oranges on the trees lining the sidewalk. I reminded myself – patience in redefinition. This type of movement is subtle and fine.

We were moving across a map into a new season of our love. That third person, the “us”, the “we”, was a thing of the past. That day in Tempe. It was Super Bowl Sunday. I was sweating out oil from hash browns and my own silence as we walked down the street. My hand was grabbing air, panicked because it did not have another hand to hold. The oranges in the trees. To pick the fruit of a city I had never been to. I reached up, let my fingers find a firm one. I pulled it down and bit into it’s skin – waxy and pocked. That skin separated from the pulp. A covering. A protection. I bit into it and spit it all out. The fruit was too bitter. I was not willing to swallow your divination of this season of change. The morphing of “us” to “I” – that singular fruit which I was had not been accustomed to eating.

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