They sat in their sack between us like miniature children on the bench seat. We didn't eat them or talk about them but instead pointed out rocks and rivers or drove and drove with no sound from Four Corners up to Grand Junction. We had seen them when we gassed up the Buick. Gold, pink, cheerful, matronly, crowded in the cart we could practically taste them in the air it was cold October I'd never seen any like that. We had to have them. I was scared on the curves and on the long flat roads not of the confident, unchanging map, but of the horizon of your face. We were just empty space, whirling atoms sucked to the earth by gravity only but for those pears.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com