Tonight, I tried to remember the first time I tasted a lemon. I think it was a neighbor's tree, maybe when I was seven. I stole it because I'd never seen anything so bright. I bit right into the peel, and the bitterness made my whole face clench. I don't know why I'm thinking about that now, in a kitchen that isn't mine, with spices that smell almost familiar. Sometimes my body feels like that lemon rind—all tough, bitter skin meant to protect something inside that's long since dried up. Other times... I catch a scent on the wind from the garden, or hear a certain bird at dawn, and for a second, I'm not a thing to be used. I'm just a girl who once stole fruit because it was yellow.