Contraband

My grandparents lived beside an orange orchard for a time. In my memory, I hopped the fence and strolled the neat rows of fruited orange trees, scoping routes through their branches. Choosing one, I lifted myself to the lowest-hanging branch, then the next, and the next. Reaching above me, I grabbed a plump fruit from the highest branch, then plunged my nails beneath its flesh, ripping the peel off in large chunks and letting them fall to the ground.

Returning to my grandparents, juice still dripping from the sides of my mouth, my grandmother told me: “You’ll get caught one of these days.”