by Rebekah Rosamilia
Last autumn we lay on the grass under the beech tree during lunch break, me on my stomach and you on your back as we talked about the color of music and the sound voices made in our heads. Sunlight fell through branches in slices like oranges, sweet and full, ready to be bitten into with juice dribbling down chins. I don’t understand why things have to be like that, like fruits juicy and acidic staining your mouth sour. I don’t understand why I gather oranges and place them in baskets, peel back their skins and see the rotten flesh inside; I don’t understand why we are so far away
from the lawn and the tree and the sunlight. From each other. I was selfish in my picking of fruits, in my storing for winter; I only wanted to be ready when the frost came. Weather never follows man’s almanacs and I know I was foolish to think my efforts could outmatch the seasons, but I tried. I only wanted to save this for us –– when the cold days came I wanted to pull our oranges from the cellar and bite into their crescents and taste your laughter as they burst, but winter doesn’t wait and it encases field and fruit in sheaths of ice, eats the food I saved
to be mine. When you reach for our harvest, know I’m sorry, please. I’m sorry I am not as good a gardener as we both believed I was. I’m sorry my basket is empty, my fingers frostbitten and clumsy and cold. I’m sorry these oranges have turned to stones, hard and tasteless, hoaxes hidden beneath bitter rinds that wait to be peeled back and left behind in the frozen grass, slices of color beside the beech’s broken limbs.
Rebekah Rosamilia is majoring in creative writing, global studies, and English Language Teaching. She enjoys dancing, playing and listening to music, and spending time in nature. Her current favorite poets are Sarah Kay and George Herbert.