Untitled [jana]

Some memories are simply ideal moments. I have a few of those stored away in metaphorical boxes of spicy dried rose petals. I take them out every once in a while and handle them carefully, lovingly, looking at them from every angle and seeing them anew. Some have grown faded with age, blurry round the edges, like those old photos that were printed on bad paper so the color went monochromatic. Some look as if they were formed whole and beautiful, but were later damaged by other forces; water damage, maybe, making the words illegible, and causing the pictures to distort and fade. A few are acid-burnt, eaten away with bitterness so the last remnants of sweetness are difficult to discern. A very few are whole and perfect the date written on acid-free paper, with permanent ink, photographs printed on the best paper, framed and set under indestructible glass. One such is clear today. It is shared by someone I knew only casually, and whom I probably only really remember because of this one day. She asked if I wanted to walk one October afternoon during my senior year at college. So we headed out in the crisp-edged blue fall day to the Back Forty school acreage, meandering first along the blackberry trail behind the art building.

At the end of the trail, near the entrance to the woods via the tunnel under the railroad tracks, stood an apple tree. We stood under it, looking up at the red and yellow apples against the black branches and blue sky. After a little bit of chat about the apples, I gave the trunk of the tree a good shake (a technique I learned from reading Anne of Green Gables, of course), and two round, rosy apples dropped neatly to the ground. We picked them up, and walked further along the trail and into the meadow on the edge of the school woods, where long grass tassels curved over, a spider web spun in the crook between tassel and stem. I was polishing the apple on my jeans as we talked about a literature class we were both taking, Romantic Poetry, I think. I polished and polished it. The apple seemed sound and whole and shiny, so I dared to take a bite. Sweet, tart, cidery...I've never eaten as good of an apple before or since. The entire fruit was sweet, crisp, fresh, cold, and bruise- and worm-free. Each taste seemed different. I finished munching the apple as we walked back out of the woods. I wished I could keep the core or the seed or the stem of the apple to remind me of the memory, but I didn't. The memento was the memory...all consumable, only present in the moment.