I lay with the mulberries under my grandparents’ tree. It’s July 4th, but they smell like the tired soil I played in on Thanksgiving.

I jam them into my mouth, fast.

They taste like visiting, but never staying.
They taste like home, but not my home.

They taste like hunger.

When Jaye was little, she would skip school to go to the library and then go home and draw on walls. Not much has changed. Find her at ThirteenthStory.com.