a gathering of acorns

Part I- Jump Starter

The smiling Amazon box on my porch blocked the door. I pushed the storm door again, but the package was heavy – too heavy for the door to budge. I turned, walked through my small house to the kitchen. I grabbed the trash to throw in the bin as I went through the garage and around the house. It was an autumn day that makes you forget the sticky heat of summer past and unmindful of winter’s frozen granite hues. Pausing now under the oak tree, its leaves hinting red and gold, and its resident, a squirrel whom a friend had named Peaches, busying himself for the winter that he, at least, knew was coming, I picked up two acorns, blew off the loose dirt, and, intending to show them to my students, placed them in my pocket.

 

On the porch, I shoved the package, too heavy for me to lift, enough to open the door. Seeing no fragile sticker, I turned the box end over end into the house. 

 

Torque, I said to myself with a smug smile. Energy transfer. I can move the earth. Screw Mr. Miller for not giving me an A in Physics. Screw, I snorted. Archimedes. 

 

I slit the tape, trying to remember what I had purchased. 

 

It was a Stanley 1000 Peak Amp Jump Starter with Compressor, and I had not ordered it.

 

Dad forgot to change the address, I decided, but that’s the price you pay for using your daughter’s Amazon Prime account.  I looked for the receipt. Mom always asked how much my father spent even though she knew I’d lie. 

 

There was no receipt to find, but there was a message.

 

                    A gift for you

                    Andrea- Keep this (charged) in the trunk. Kyle

 

Kyle had sent me a Stanley 1000 Peak Amp Jump Starter with Compressor as a gift.

 

And just like that,

like turned over into love.

 

Part II – Ignition

It was Kyle’s first time at my house. The relationship was three months in, but we lived 416 miles apart. We spoke often and both thought of love, but phone calls fuel potential – gravity is only a theory until the apple actually falls.  

 

We tried hard to show only our best selves around each other – he took out the trash; I gave him the remote – but the truth will always out.

 

He liked to sit close on the couch and watch TV, except South Park annoyed me. NCIS: Los Angeles bored me. Criminal Minds scared me. He fell asleep before I did, awoke after I did, and monopolized the bathroom even more than I monopolized the bed and pillows.

 

My chaotic spectrum of bookmarks appalled his lawful good alignment. He read one book at a time and used a bookmark that he never misplaced. My multiple books were marked with used napkins, embroidery floss, other books, ponytail holders, and even a sock. He purchased bookmarks and laundered the lone sock. 

 

I woke him up when I set off the smoke alarm making pancakes, but he thought it was cute when I pretended it was the breakfast bell. He was gentle when my anxiety and OCD got the better of me, and I checked the garage door three times. He calmly told me to turn left at the second light and then left on Claiborne when I got lost driving the 7.7 miles home from Walmart. He refrained from mentioning that the car would have started if I hadn’t left the lights on. 

 

Part III – Energy Transfer

A few days after he left, I finally got around to cleaning up the mud he’d tracked in after his trip to Barnes and Nobles for bookmarks. I opened the front door to let the autumn luster emanate through the storm door. 

 

That’s when I saw the package. 

 

That’s when I fell in love.

 

Part IV 

I cut and folded the box for recycling. As I again walked through the kitchen to the garage, a pink ponytail holder on the floor caught my eye. A bookmark!, I laughed, picking it up. Transferring it in my pocket, I rediscovered the acorns.

 

I held them, considering the smooth shells, the rough cupules, and a once told story.

 

I took a bowl from the cabinet and filled it with water.

Kyle, I said, dropping one acorn gently into the water. 

Me, I said, looking at the remaining acorn in my hand.

 

If the acorns floated together, we were forever. 

If the acorns didn’t float together – I couldn’t, wouldn’t finish the thought.

 

Kyle’s acorn floated in the center. 

 

Me, I said again. The acorn was touching the water, but I couldn’t let go.

 

It was a concave meniscus. If I placed my acorn near the edge of the bowl, our acorns would drift apart. If I let go with both acorns in the open center, we would float together. 

 

I let go and, without looking, scooped our acorns out of the water. Then, I carried them across the family room to the storm door. 

 

Through the glass, I saw Peaches on a branch of the oak. I opened the door and tossed the acorns, our acorns, at the foot of the tree. 

 

Only winter is inevitable.