Here is the story of the things we gathered, told through ingredients and time. All those days we spent in the garden, my head on your stomach, my hand in your hand. How time was slow and sweet like honey and the bees hummed and the peaches fell from their branches and bruised all around us and how we devoured them despite. We spent our summers there, in the garden; eating fruit like kings and queens, drinking riverwater like fine wine.
Let me tell you about the nature of things; how memory is a fruit both bruised and sweet. How the trees of the mind tremble; how they first bear buds then blossoms then arms with which to embrace the sun and how the arms grow heavy with it, how their heads bow, heavy with light.
And you wouldn't think we were built to bear such opposites, but we are and we do. We bear the light, all that unraveling. Arms, branches; bare limbs etched into blue sky. The fruit is bruised but it tastes sweet, like honey, like rainwater, like amor fati.
You remember the moment and the moment remembers you and you are here. The trees, how they tremble, they take you in their arms, they whisper, You are here, you are here, you are home.