I won't remember this in the morning. The way her arm feels wrapped around my shoulders. She is helping me into the car, her car, which is red like mushed up cranberries. The last time I ate cranberries was when I was seven.

mango juice drips from my fingers seeps into the brown dirt dirt that holds roots that reach across countries roots that stitch together centuries roots that spread and cannot be confined mango juice drips from my fingers plunges to the earth earth my mother raced across earth that felt the weigh

a cherry

a seemingly harmless

red, round fruit

you pop the whole thing

in your mouth

bite down on the

soft sweet juicy pulp

then suddenly

you reach the middle

expecting the soft flesh

you get a solid pit

Time’s hands are surprisingly familiar for all the change they bring. Their grasp is a feeling we all know and yet always seem to forget until they put us a down.