Abscond

Eyes on the road: asphalt races under me at ninety miles an hour. Empty lanes on either side rise and fall with the rolling hills. Beyond the mountains the indigo sky lightens; a yellow haze barely emanating announces the morning. Cool night air whistles past, and the wind buffets the truck as we go through the pass. Desert expands in either direction. The openness and the emptiness embolden me. I press the gas pedal a little harder.

No. 133

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.”

No. 041