When I left, I put a few of my belongings in the grass. I was prepared to miss the occasion of their decomposition — browning of extremities, bloating, liquefaction — the enriching of the region that could only take place out of sight. I told myself that I had only left pears, heavy and slightly rotten fruits that would disappear faster than I could forget them.

“Pear of wisdom, pear of calling,” I may have written or said somewhere. To add: pear of shame, pear of longing, pear of silence.