Honeycrisp apple jacket

I can never forget the honeycrisp apple jacket I wore on February eighteen the dripping modest flower sleeves and the pull of the easy zipper up to my chin and the way it kept me warm when the sky was stuffed with damp cotton and the way the grass looked so verdant without the white sun and the way the dainty weeds peeked out from between the dense sidewalk cracks as I made my way to the supermarket with an azure purse at my hip and Holden Caulfield’s voice in my ears and the streets had marveling circles of colorless rain puddles which I took care not to step in for fear my socks would get stained and grimy then I got to the supermarket and the kumquat lights were dim and the people were perusing through isles stacked to the ceiling with bread or milk but I was busy looking at the cart of chocolate bars and I got two—caramel for myself, hazelnuts for my sister—and a nice young couple let me pay before them and I couldn’t say ‘thank you’ a second time because they were busy hauling on their cardboard boxes and glass bottles to notice so I left the supermarket with a baguette—baked fresh daily!—and two chocolate bars tucked away in the azure purse in front of the honeycrisp apple jacket and I walked back home to see the brilliant orange tree overhead—just out of reach.

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