Dusk writing

My room is filled with fruit. Mom came down today and brought a basket full of peaches. Said they were from our front yard tree. Smelled real good when I took them from her cradled arms, but now all I can smell is feet. Because the rain soaked my shoes and reminded them of when they would sweat. Lots of smells surface with the rain. Got pears too and an apple. Nesting in my collapsable metal basket, they keep their smell to themselves. If I had bananas and if these bananas were overripe, they'd be sure to mask this feet smell, but I have no such thing. And it's wet outside but not raining, so I'm having trouble deciding about riding my bike, though the seat is saturated.

A man approached a group as we left the dining hall. Said he went here fifty years ago. It's some sort of alumni weekend, and they're all here in their colorful suits and white, balding heads and tripping over the puddles in their pointed shoes. Each has that giddy smile, that too happy with himself look that cannot fathom rain. Because they are going in to their old dining hall to eat, because of the newness of it all. He stops the group and asks if we still sing the school song in there on Sundays. A few words dribble from their mouths, almost a song, almost the right words. No one sings over meals. But I like to think that we did. I like to think that the we of it all extends from me back to this man who is likely retired and likely lives near a dock, lined with old tin cans bobbing in the water, catching what they can catch. A man who welcomes rust. When you're that old, you tend to appreciation the discoloration of falling apart.