Author : G. Grim

Do I know you? Maybe. Let me think.

I think we met on Betelle.

When I look at your face I remember tasting strange fruit. Like persimmons, but wetter. Sweeter. Like water falling in a garden. They don’t have fruit at home. I remember that. Something to do with pollination and bees and … something. There is a word for that fruit, but it’s gone now. Like the apple trees are gone and I can’t remember why. I can’t remember why I’m not at home.

No, it wasn’t Betelle. It was Lastly, and the fruit came from Betelle. The fruit seller looked old, but someone told me that she wasn’t. The journey changed her.

Was it you who told me that? Or was it you who handed me the fruit?

I’d love to have just one more mouthful of that fruit. I remember that people used to hate the rain, and now I’d give anything for that fruit because it tastes like water falling from the sky.

Do you remember the sky? I do. It was a blue so intense it was almost purple. Not the sky at home, of course. The sky on Betelle. There was something wrong with the sky at home.

Stop interrupting me. It’s very rude. You can’t make a memory wake up, you know. You just have to wait until it’s ready. Sometimes if you push it goes away and never comes back.

We went away, didn’t we? We left home because the apple trees and the sky were gone. And we’re never going back. But you were with me. I remember your hands. I remember squeezing them as the engines roared. Ripping apart what was left of the sky. Crying because there wasn’t any rain left.

Why aren’t you old? If the journey made her old, why aren’t you if we took that journey together?

Am I old?

Am I?

Who am I? I don’t remember. Do you have any fruit for me? I miss the taste of raindrops.

We stopped on Betelle. That’s where I tasted it for the first time. Oh. Oh yes. They grow it there, the rain-fruit, and then they send it to other places. All the places where people remember apple trees and skies.

You were there. I remember that. You held the fruit for me as I ate it. I remember the taste of sweet juice on your skin.

Why are you sad? It’s a lovely thing to remember and you look so sad. I was so happy.

Why aren’t you happy? Aren’t we safe here together?

I remember…

I remember I offered you some. You liked persimmons, back when they still grew at home. But you refused. You were so angry. I don’t understand why you were so angry. A whole world that smelled like rain and flowers and you hated it. And I was angry.

I don’t want to remember being angry. I was happy before. Why did you come here? This isn’t your home.

This isn’t my home, either. I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I want to go home!

Oh, Lastly. Lastly isn’t home, but it’s all there is now. I remember that. I remember the day we came here, ripping another hole in another sky. I had my hands in my pockets that day. I would have held your hands, but I was holding my last fruit.

You were so angry. You took it away. You threw away my fruit and brought me here.

I remember you.

I hate you.

I love the fruit that tastes like rain.

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