nostalgic for apples

I am sitting in a hard chair 

Thousands of miles away from my mother, 

But my hair is damp 

And I can’t help but think 

Of the apples 

That used to be put in a small tin, 

Handed to me when I got in her car, 

Warming my hands.


It’s an ache within my heart, 

A tingle at the tips of my fingers. 

I am so far away, 

Yet I am thinking of who I once was. 

It’s my orange 

Split in half 

To be shared.

The labor of love 

Is my mother standing over a metal pot, 

Stirring the apples. 

I can still smell it 

As I walk through the door

And peel off my shoes. 

I can see my life before,

Sometimes like a blurry Polaroid 

Or a clear-cut movie, 

Swallowing me up 

As the professor talks on.