Fully open crab apple blossoms, swaying on breezy branches; bouyant, bobbing, bowing, blowsy. Bees browsing in their open cups. The breeze is warm, with cool edges that curl around my face, lifting the bits of hair that have come loose from my hair tie. Nose, eyes and throat are filled with allergy, making the crab apple's scent more like something to taste than smell, at the roof of my mouth. Who was that boy who asked me to the U of D junior prom? Peter something. I said no, thank you. The trees were in bloom that day, that evening, as I sat on my parents bed, phone clutched in my sweaty hand as the sun settled west, sending a slant of golden light through the window, across the corner of the bed, ending on the closet door.
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