I remember August afternoons under 
Grandma’s cherry tree, our little fingers 
plucking stems off brittle branches and 
placing red flesh between our lips, spitting 
out pits accompanied by scarlet saliva into 
fresh cut grass. The sun beat down on our 
strawberry-shaded shoulders, rubber flip-flips 
squishing rotten fruit, now imprinted with the 
soles of our sweet, sweet childhood.