Whole fruit taught me certainty. Segments taught me truth. The grapefruit opens and refuses a single story-sweet, bitter, collapsing, intact. The raspberries never pretend: they are fragments held together just enough to survive. This is what growing up does. You return to what you were given and call it wrong-too hidden, too soon, too late. And maybe it was. But those who gave it were working from fragments too. The taste is still yours. And beneath all this—strangely-there
