I spent the night on the linoleum floor of the kitchen, drifted in and out of dreams. The sailboat in Italy on vacation as a kid, my dad popping fish after fish onto the deck. My mom wearing pearls, a glass of wine in hand, the glint of raspberry lipstick. The black sailboat blowing up. Gardens on balconies. Gardens in Harlem, drenched with rocket fuel.
I thrashed around, my sore feet flopping between the cabinet and the base of the counter. Why didn’t we plant more when we had the chance? Why weren’t there apple trees in every park? Mint growing out of the sidewalks? Pots of peppers on the front steps?





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