The Tenderness of Strange Fruits

The back garden is overgrown with weeds and nettles. A small figure stands at the gate, holding something in their hand. It is dark, but not black. The fruit is heavy, larger than any I have seen before. Its skin is a pale, dusty pink that seems to shimmer in the darkness. I do not remember who opened the gate or what the small figure looked like. The tenderness of it is all I have left.

I hold the fruit against my chest. It does not seem to notice. It is as if the garden and its fruit were waiting for me. A shower begins, very gentle at first, then growing in intensity. I look up and see a ceiling above me. There are cracks where small beams of lightning come through, lighting up the room. The thunderstorm does not surprise me.