micro memoir | That next summer, a little heart fell, spinning, out of my Tagore poetry collection.
We’re climbing up the tree. He’s laughing with his younger brother. “Be careful,” says he lovingly. He bends forward and picks up a seed from the grass. “It has the shape of a heart, see?” he holds out the seed in his palm to me, a thin, transparent heart-shaped membrane enclosing a little nut. “This kind of seeds falls from the tree every year. When we were in elementary school, we would give them to the girls we secretly had a crush on.” Then he gave it to me, the fragile little heart-shaped seed passing from the warmth of his palm to the warmer-th of mine. He went on to climb the tree with his brother. The setting sun in C is just the same as the sun anytime of the day, any day of the year. I secretly pretended we were in his elementary school.
“E and Arden sitting in a tree
P A S S I N G”