I opened my refrigerator and there it was. Sad and saggy like an old lady wearing too many layers who had fallen asleep on the bus on a cold winter's day, the persimmon I told myself I'd eat but had forgotten to. It sat there on the clear, plastic shelf. Its leaves now showed indications of limpness that came from rotting but a crispiness from having dried out; they were like a little knitted hat on this grandma.
The persimmon that he... yes, he. My resolution lasted for so short a time. But it is the persimmon he had given to me. Because he knew how much I loved them.