fictions

at the farmers’ market this weekend i bought lodi apples, the apples that used to grow in the trees in my grandparents’ yard. every summer my grandma would make applesauce from those tart apples, and making grandma’s applesauce in my apartment felt like a rite of passage. that sounds like a short story – the apples of my grandmother.

last night on a whim i danced in the rain, the thunder and lightning crashing around me and the other dancers. i stayed on that patio until my dress was soaked, my hair lashing across my face, the rain glistening on my skin. there are two ending to this story. in one i am pressed against the wall of the club, hands in my knotted hair, making out in the downpour. in another, i slip my shoes on and wake up the next morning with my feet aching and my body sore.

i spent two days in chicago this week/weekend, helping with a workshop and then wandering around. i think the city has been spoiled for me for a time by too many layers of memory, but i found new things to love, like my feet cooled by the lake after a squealing dash across burning sands, like eating ice cream at navy pier while watching the sea birds take roost.

there are endings to these stories but they lie somewhere between truth and fiction, between perception and reality, between the past and the future.

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