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Cornucopia
Seve Christian
    Strawberries are my sister and memories of being picky. Strawberries are visits to Uncle Mike in Chico before it became my drunken stomping grounds in high school. The seeds are remnants of the toothache faked in Dairy Queen before Dad left for Iraq and when masculinity knocked at my door to remind me that little boys do not cry over just anything. Strawberries are tears and fears and everything in between. These seedy queens are the virgin daiquiris I ordered at restaurants to mimic the behavior of the grownups in my life and the glamorous life I still wish to lead. It’s weird to become the big kid. My taste buds’ acceptance of strawberries show me that change is unexpected and inevitable. I’m sure my father knew my mother would have her hands full raising me as I would change while he would be blowing others brains out. I like strawberries.
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    Grapes are God. God has left me in the dust since I can remember, but there are times I lean on whoever God may be, because they’re all I have. When I think of God I usually think of Flick from the movie “A Bug’s Life” and start to feel a little sad. Grapes are wine on my mother’s breath each evening after getting home in high school after Dad left for Pakistan. I was trapped in the town I was so determined to escape. Grapes are wine on Mom’s breath and reminders of why she has the scars on her forearm. My mother is so strong and throughout her life she’s always attributed it to God. She says that God works in mysterious ways and has always screamed “GOD BLESS IT” in the thick of moments that she loses her temper.
Grapes are wine and wine almost killed my mom the time she decided enough was enough and drove just a little too drunk. Grapes are God and grapes are wine. Grapes are the blood that filled the cup holders in her Nissan Quest entirely. Grapes are wine and grapes are God and both seem to cause problems.
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    Papayas are who I used to call Papa before my mom finally told me that he wasn’t my actual dad. Papayas are fucking disgusting. Papayas are homes for fleshy potholes filled with deer droppings that remind of the time that I tricked my younger brother. While we were at the cemetery visiting my Tio’s grave I told my younger brother that the dry deer droppings on the pavement were actually pieces of chocolate until he put one of them into his mouth.
    When my mom told me that I would be getting a new baby brother I cried because I wanted a puppy instead. I feel guilty because I see the ways in which my fear of being forgotten probably informed the ways that I babysat. Papayas remind me of the guilt I feel when I remember that the baby brother who I was forced to baby-sit at a young age would have his hair yanked by yours truly when he was acting out of line. I loved him in the ways that I had been taught.
    I think my younger brother liked papaya when he was a baby. He used to be so sweet until one day something changed and his anger grew as pungent as the smell of a freshly cut papaya. He hits people and is on probation and I can’t help but blame myself. Papayas are gross.
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    Bananas are the shakes my mom made in the morning before school that I never thought I would miss as a grown up; yet here I am. Bananas are sparkly like the plant I haven’t stopped smoking since I was fourteen.  Yikes.
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    So maybe there aren’t bananas in cornucopias but perhaps you have formulated a point in your mind that you felt I was trying to make. Fruit baskets. Basket case full of fruit. That kid is such a fruit, a real basket case; nothing but a phony, fruity, bowl of randoms simply trying.  
11:50:37
Monday Nov 5 2018