There in the fine-grain dust of the apple orchard. There with the dust running through our small child hands like liquid. Like the things we can’t ever hold onto. Like the memory of the orchard on that day. The two of us on the edge of the trees with the yellow lab Fibber. There with Fibber and the dust and the orchard. And there are Jimson weeds too—sticky orange blossoms and dinosaur leaves and stems that scratch against shins and calves. There, we do not know what our bodies mean, just that they feel. The satin sinking of dust under limb, the summertime sun warming our small backs, the sour unripe apples in our mouths. There on that day what we do not know could fill the orchard. We cannot know what our bodies will do to us. Every revelation and sorrow, all the pleasure and all the pain. We cannot know that a decade from now, he will feel so trapped in his own body, he will attempt to break free of it. Cannot know how he will take a razor from his wrist to the soft inside of his elbow. Cannot know that I will wonder, not at the horror of it, but at his courage. That I will spend hours beside a candle, testing its flame on my skin, dripping the liquid wax onto my arms. There in the orchard, we are just children. There, he throws an apple at me and I throw it back, the small green orb floating in the space between us.

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