TASTE
I remember a peach picked ripe off the tree—juicy, sweet, peachy. I remember an apple, crisp and tart with the flavor of cool fall mornings, the juice lingering in my mouth. I remember a tomato red and delicious with an enticing tang. Yesterday at the grocery I bought peaches hard as rocks that never ripen to their proper flavor, apples that should have been in a Cezanne still life, but with a leathery peal over mushy, tasteless meat, and a pale, off-season tomato with no life, no taste, no reason to exist. How lucky it is to have memories.
PAST LIVES
Buddhists believe in a cycle of rebirth—reincarnation. Some say they can remember past lives. Eva used to believe she could remember experiences she’d had during the French Revolution. She loved being a noble Parisienne in silk brocade and velvet panniered dresses—a king’s mistress or a queen. Studying history in college, she learned that the French Revolution brought unimaginable violence—the terror of the guillotine and thousands of civilians mowed down for peaceful demonstrations. Eva couldn’t remember those horrifying events. Her earliest memories were her mother’s shoes when she played on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. And that was all.
FEAR
Maryanne’s fear of growing old wasn’t about wrinkled skin, hip replacements, or approaching death. She feared losing her sexual desires. She consulted her physician lover who assured her that she wouldn’t lose the sexual energy she enjoyed. Jon was right. Their clandestine love affair survived with youthful intensity for thirty years meeting her physical needs and his. Then fate stole Jon’s virility—common for older men. No blue pill could fix it. No longer sharing her pleasure, he retreated to his comfortable first love—his wife, who didn’t know but wouldn’t judge. Now Maryanne has her memories and her imagination.