8.15.22

Once you wrote in your notebook: every sacrifice you make for others, you make for yourself. 
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There was that guava tree outside, heavy with its own fruit. In the spring it would collapse under its own weight so ___ tied a wooden pole to it to keep it from falling over. Often she would say it was her favorite fruit. Now, so far away from California, I think of guava; its strange dryness and specific aroma. The seeds which I could never decide to swallow or spit. 

How much of my life was held up on the branches of this tree. I would mark the seasons by each bowl of guavas appearing on the kitchen counter. How many guavas lined up, one against the next, would be enough to wrap around all our time spent in that house? 

I would study that tree and its fruit so carefully, but it still wasn't careful enough to remember more than the memory of it. 

Anyways, enough of this. 

Today I will move through the world, which is made of time, which is made of guava, which is heavy with everything else.