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I still don’t know the name of the fruit.
It might have been regional. Seasonal. Rare. Or maybe it was ordinary, made extraordinary by the moment.
And I’ve made peace with that.
Some memories are not meant to be pinned down. Some experiences lose their magic when fully explained. Some things remain powerful precisely because they resist naming.
That fruit lives now as a symbol of:
Childhood wonder
The intimacy of being cared for
The way small moments imprint forever
Why I Still Hope
Even so, I haven’t stopped hoping.
Maybe one day I’ll bite into something and know instantly.
Maybe someone will describe a fruit in passing and my heart will jump.
Maybe I’ll stumble across it when I least expect to.
Memory has a way of surprising us.
And if that day comes, I don’t think I’ll feel triumphant.
I think I’ll feel… complete.
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