by Brandon Dormes // September 28, 2022
This week, I mourn the Ginger Golds.
I grew up going to flea markets. In Texas, we get mangos, corn, and watermelons. Plentiful enough to bury your family. Cheap enough to make heaven feel mundane, and fresh enough to make me feel shame when I buy cups from the Hop.
But our apples can’t hold a candle to New England’s.
I met them first at Riverview Farm. I met them last at Riverview Farm. My freshman year, FYSEP carted us there, and the orchard enamored me. I could step over the tree’s roots and reach into their crowns. I plucked and gnawed into varieties before I learned their names. It was havoc under the branches. I tore through row after row — until I drew this one particular apple. It stopped me. It was massive and it was yellow and it was juicy and it was sweet and it was tender. I could not design an apple I could want more.
I thought nothing of them. Filled my bag with them, then ate one a day until they were gone. I’ll go again next year, I thought. You know what happened the next year.
Now, I am a senior, and the season of Ginger Golds has passed me by. I forgot to return to them. Their skin is too gentle for transport. They wrinkle and rot quickly. They grow here, but I am unsure where else.
I think that last bite, in 2019, was our farewell.
Here is a song by Will Woods. It is about loss. It’s not really a salve. It’s anticipation, fear, and screaming disappointment. Then moving on.
My world is different now, and I have an X-hour at 12.
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