Friday August 13th
Day 114
An apple thuds onto the grass. I pick it up. Not a rotten one. Not a small hard green one. A half red apple from the top of the tree with a bruised dent in its side and a split in the skin. Juice beads, like dewdrops follow the line of the wound. It smells like my grandmother's September garden.
Ripe apples mean autumn. It can’t be that time. I haven’t worn my summer dress yet - the one with African heat sewn into its hem.
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