On a Sunday afternoon, I went outside in my slippers and picked my kumquats from two young, slight trees. I picked ten Meyer lemons and five oranges. I picked yellow Mexican marigolds that smelled so strong, and all I could hear was the air moving the plants, and what I could smell was the perfume of the marigolds on my hands mixed with the wild lemon and orange scents. It was quiet and peaceful and I spoke out loud to the mystery of people, to the traces of the lives that had lived here before me. I imagined them looking out at me from the kitchen windows as I pulled up my sweatshirt to use
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