You are eating an orange.
Your fingers are sticky.
You are listening to a song for the memories it brings.
You remember her hair, dark. Ukuleles. People singing.
You remember dirt beneath your fingernails, baked into the creases on the backs of your hands. Eight days' worth of sweat gathers like layers of sediment beneath your breasts, in the folds of your armpits, behind your ears.
You pee beside a tree then peel off your clothes, like unwrapping maple candy in summer. Sticky.
You walk into the center of the river, to its deepest. It's only a few feet but it'll do. You press your elbows into a rock and stretch your legs-- hairy, strong-- across the eddies to another boulder. Prop your feet up. Tilt your head back. Close your eyes. Stay there.
The water pools around and then crests over you, tickling, making you laugh. It is cold, ever-changing, clean.