Sitting in the grocery cart, I reach the little red and yellow box to my mother. She has the power to rip the glue seal without tearing the sides. My fingers are the perfect size to pick individual raisins out of the little cake that has formed. I decide I'm going to look like the young, sun-glowing woman on the container.
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I become disenchanted with the fruits as I find that, yet again, they took the place of chocolate chips.
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My college roommate comes back home from Walmart with a tub. The same woman looks out of her dark curls. When some are offered, I give in to nostalgia and nibble the cake away. I can feel the cold metal grid at the tips of my fingers, the air flowing through, and my mother close by.
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Walking in an unfamiliar city grocery store, I keep running into unfamiliar names: coriander courgette, and crisps. A green package catches my eye. It sports familiar words among so many that have to be translated: "California Raisins." Snatching them up, I can feel them sticking together under the plastic. Making excuses for the cost, I place them into the metal grid of my basket.
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Sitting on my bed, I reach for the saucer with my tea and a pile of raisins. Such a simple thing becomes a great luxury this many miles from home.
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