nutrients.

I picture a mouse in windfall in October.

I imagine it cold, on the ground. I imagine it damp. The mouse doesn’t mind, or I imagine it doesn’t. This is just what its home is. This is just the world.

I picture an Elephant Ear bulb, buried in June, dug up in September, wrapped up in burlap and boxed in the attic to wait out the winter.

I imagine it dry. I imagine it everlasting. The bulb doesn’t know it shouldn’t be alive, or I imagine it doesn’t. It’s an Elephant Ear, after all. It holds a memory of all the springs, all the winters before this one, just as it will hold a memory of the ones to come.

I picture a pint of blueberries in July.

I imagine them fresh, warm from the sun. I think that’s what it must be like, really. A pint of blueberries in July. Could eat the whole thing without a thought, a pile of sapphire, iolite, moonstone.

I used to play a game with myself and a bowl of bloobs fresh from the farmer’s market on Sundays. I used to sit on the deck in the sun and the trees with the too-blue pool water shining sunlight back up at me, and I’d try to guess how sweet each berry would be.

The small ones were sour, the big fat ones all water. The middling ones were a mystery, and I used to hold each one in my mouth with my eyes shut and the sun red in my eyelids and decide what taste it would be before I could break the skin with my teeth.

It was a game, and it was important. I couldn’t tell you why, in just the same way that I couldn’t tell you why I still stand in my parents’ driveway to watch for UFOs when I go home for Christmas. In just the same way that I couldn’t tell you why I still want to call for my dog when I walk into their house.

I’ve never seen a UFO.

My dog’s been gone for years.

And no matter how hard I try to guess the sweetness of a blueberry, I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten it quite right.