It occurs to her, how solitude is like setting off for a jaunt on a craft, not anticipating the fathomlessness of the sea until in the middle of it. How one then cocks one’s ear into the air, bent on this idea of someone on shore signaling a pressing need, delivering one from the unknowable. When nothing comes of this, one’s mind turns to food. It’s like one pictures a desert isle where jerusalem artichoke pickles will make all the difference.
The quince is the electric yellow of a tennis ball one whacks.
The quince is the ugly child that comes later than expected.
The quince is a freak of nature, the bumper crop no one knows what to do with. One senses that they are nonetheless in possession of a goldmine.
The quince’s homeliness moves me to hold beauty pageants. This year’s winner is the one just out of reach I stretched for and found fetching.