Abstract

For a few thick moments apricots orbit in sunny colonies, and then, with a whoosh, the tree and fruit whip past. On this country road, row after orchard row disappears behind us and our eyes re-focus, only for a moment, on the fleeting trees, glimmering leaves, and crimson fruits ahead. Alejandro slows down as one by one, signs replace trees. “Private Property, No Trespassing” on the left, “Beware of Dog” and “McMurtry Brothers Fencing” on the right. Gravel grates and crunches under the Chevy’s tires, stating our presence like signal guns. The flatbed’s hooks and boards bounce, clang, and rattle. I imagine an old shopping cart rolling through a cobble-floored monastery. Alejandro eases his truck up the gravel road to the brown, one-story wood and stucco ranch house. We’ve driven up and down old, crumbly edged roads for the last hour, but now he’s sure this is the place. In line next to the house is an immediate family of carport, garage, and three sheds all the same color. He parks near the sheds and I follow his lead as he opens his door.