[11:27 a.m.] : [2011-08-16]

On the back side of the fig tree I crawled under a low hanging branch to lean against the fence and take shelter in the shade from the late afternoon sun. The light broke through holes in the leaves so I pulled the brim of my hat low to cover my eyes, and I dozed in the summer heat.

I can't say if I actually dreamt, it may have been a passing thought before nodding off or maybe it was something upon waking but Jenny was on my mind. There was a cool breeze on the air. I reached up, plucked a plump ripe fig off a branch overhead, opened the fruit and ate.

There was a tree that grew big on the fence line of the Ravensway house where I had spent the first 18 years of my life. Waiting to be picked up from a job was the first time in my life I had ever eaten a fig. When the season was right, my father would often break from yard work to pick figs off the back fence and at the time us boys thought less of the act for some reason. It took me 30 years to try one for myself, sitting in dirt of a strangers front yard two thousand miles from the first home I'd every known.

The sweetness stayed on my tongue from the first lick. Then a small nibble to slowly test the thing out in my mouth. Play with it, acclimate to its texture and taste. It was delicious and in a way refreshing, then again I had been parched. And, while I enjoyed it, I ate only a small portion and discarded the rest to the trunk of the tree. Sometimes the only thing I can wonder is why I never told Jenny that I loved her when I could have meant it.

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