Not the broccoli frittata at Rita’s Cafe, but the freckled apricot straight off the ground. That’s what my mouth remembers: equal parts dust and sun and filched sweetness. From my neighbor’s tree, my neighbor the widower, so the apricot had a bruised, leftover taste to it, wrapped in the faintest whiff of ant, three of which I had to brush away before my first pink bite. And not the parade downtown but the homeless woman strollering her baby through the crowds after. And upon closer glimpse not a baby at all but a doll—swaddled in aluminum cans, as if settling in for a lazy recyclable nap. I filled the rest of the day with errands, yard work, a go at the sports page. Nothing stuck but a misfired text: Hey, Paco, where do you think you’re going with that parachute? If only someone would call me Paco every weekend. An orange parachute, make it orange, or blue with orange stripes. And not the limp flag at half mast, someone famous dying at flagpoles all over town, but the Barbie leg I found at the park hidden under a picnic table. A left leg, not scuffed or slashed, teal sandal still intact, so the struggle must have been minimal. And the way I planted it beside the teeter-totter, in soft mud, toes up, so it could talk straight to the sky without shadows trying to run the show.