The trees are in bloom and the leaves are thick with pearls like swollen berries. The branches hang heavy as hearts under their weight and I wonder what it would be like to swallow a pearl. Just one. I want to feel the grain against my tongue as it caresses the pearl’s exquisite roundness, clicking against my teeth. I want to feel the pearl roll down my throat. Would it catch? Would I fight its descent or would it continue on, unencumbered by my body’s protestations. Would that I could feel it in my stomach then, held deep within me like the secrets I’m too sick to say.
I consider these things as I lie beneath the tree, watch as the strands of pearls drip down around me. Some of them snag on smaller branches with leaves that flutter like frightened wings. The pearls pool in my lap, my hands, surrounding me on the ground like an opulent fairy ring. I wait for the fae folk to take me but no one comes. Slowly I am buried in pearls, the pile finally high enough to kiss my cheeks. I think of parting my lips, letting one slip onto my tongue, but I don’t. Instead, I wait until the pearls overtake me and then I’m no longer waiting for anything at all.