Francine eats oranges like they are herself in a field after a long swim in the river next to her father’s house and she is warm in the field, slightly wet. Francine understands memories are stones, some heavier than others, some shinier, too but all are for the pocket, which could bury us if we chose to go alone into the river without St. Gabriel to save us. Francine plows her mother’s bones, because she’s alone, she writes, inside her suffering. I want a grove, she writes, of oranges happy to be oranges and a father to tend to them while I catch fish in the river. Francine eats oranges like they are herself in a field after a long swim in the river.