I ate the fruits of loss and shame, not knowingthey marinated for weeks under the tree bark out back,poisoned with words I was too young to understand. Biteby bite, my life projected in front of mefrom a silver beam, like Heaven had openedits refrigerator door—and I wondered, who is Loss anyway. OnceAunt Kate passed on, and her body begandecomposing into the rich black molasses of memory, did shereally drip down my throat with sweetnessuntil my esophagus tingled as I slept? Bite by bite, my teethpierced bruises. Acid boogied on my tongue. WheneverI leaned over the sink to wash out my mouth, I caught Lossstaring at me in the bathroom mirror, or at least a girlwho looked like Loss. She sat in the second stall—dooropen, skipping second-period Health, waiting for meto read the clock she cradled in her palms, which tickedwith each breath she took, until Shame walked in and claimedthe next stall. Shame, because I couldn’t fully remembera single memory with Kate—not the days we curledinto ourselves under thick wool blankets on the couch, as raindrummed against the windows, not even days we filledwith awe as 婆婆 (pòpó) hummed to the sizzling symphonyof green peppers and pork over his oily pan. Shame watched mewalk right past Loss, embarrassed to hug Her when she showed upon my first day of high school. I left Her arms hanging open—Her eyes still hopeful, Her half-smile holdingthe simple desire to watch old movies, to go shopping. Instead,I stayed home, spent hours on calls with a boywho never cared. And then, finally, I bit into the fruitand Shame flamed across my chest until my skin bubbledeverywhere Loss had touched me, right thereover the kitchen sink—it flamed and bubbled until I agreedto pierce the cold air of Fifth Avenue with our knife-tiplaughter, Loss and I, giggling at our reflectionsrippling across the darkening store windows.