still life with apricots
We have triggers that hold back memories. The mind, the soul if you believe in souls, puts up psychic dams and holds back floods so we do not go crazy. We do not destroy ourselves. Yesterday, walking through a grocery store's produce section, I came upon apricots. How strange that that fruit woke up so much in me? No, not strange, the apricot is one of the national symbols of Armenia. The sun is another. "May the sun put you in your grave." A curse I heard one of my fellow teachers use.
Memories suddenly surface. Memories you didn't know you had in you. Or, rather, you knew all along but ignored, carrying them like cancer. An alien lump you think is part of your very soul.
You did like apricots as a child, you
are told. Apricot puree, pudding, spooned
into your mouth. Now the fruit pains you, few
memories pain you like that. Here the wound
stays raw for years. Let the fruit be festooned
with your secrets. Let no lover see it
and think amorous thoughts. It is marooned
in a place you cannot even admit
exists. Shriveled little ear, you emit
memories I cannot deal with, pain caught
in your pulpy flesh. Please teach this half-wit
boy that everything can spoil. Apricot,
cities, memory. Even you boy, and
you are no stranger in this foreign land.