My grandmother used to live in our backyard in California, in a little house of her own. There were rose bushes outside.

She had a little yellow canary that I loved taking out of its cage and holding. I could feel his little heart beating rapidly, his soft feathers ruffled between my fingers. When it flew away from my five year-old hands and out her front door, I fashioned a trap out of an old cardboard box that was held up by a stick attached to a string that I held onto, lying on my stomach in the grass. Bird feed was scattered around and under the box, and I thought it was just a matter of time before he or another bird came by for a snack, and then I'd pull the string and the box would trap my grandmother's new pet for me. That didn't work.

When we moved from Redwood City to Roanoke, she came with us and we turned our finished basement into an apartment for her. There was nothing better than coming home from school and hanging out with my grandma downstairs. I really loved having her so close.

She came from Argentina and had broken English, but she taught me the magic of arroz con leche for breakfast, saltine crackers with butter and sugar as an after-school snack, and that if you pressed too hard with your pencil, you'd never be able to erase it completely.

We had ten nice years together. Sometimes I miss her more than I can remember her, but I know that one day we'll be seeing each other again.

I'm awake, but I keep my eyes closed. 

It was a late night and I try to remember where I am. I reach across the air mattress and feel Rob's warm arm, and then I hear Shawna's voice from somewhere outside the open, once-dining room that has turned into a makeshift guest bedroom. I'm at Davidson College, in her house, and it's Spring Frolics weekend.

The running water of a shower cuts off with a squeak from the faucet and a hair dryer roars to life. Shawna's roommates chatter upstairs as they get ready for the day.

I can feel the sun, streaming in through the half-cracked mini blinds, on my face. I hear bare feet padding across the linoleum floor of the kitchen and country music blaring through a stereo in the living room. The coffee maker gurgles and drip drip drips. I finally open my eyes and follow my ears throughout the house to find Shawna, one of my very best friends.

I may be in a different state, but I'm still home.

And so ready for spring.

The problem with creative non-fiction is that sometimes, you forget what's real and what's made up. I can't tell if it's a sign of a good imagination or a bad memory, but either way, I'm pretty sure that the following story never actually happened. 

Fiction. Mostly.

I always thought pomegranates were cool. I love their ugly, tough exterior and the fact that below their shell lies a wealth of jeweled seeds the color of juicy rubies. I like working for something good--awkwardly plunging a knife into this fruit and pulling it in half, then taking a quarter of an hour just to seed the thing. 

I would get them at the store every now and again when I saw them, but eventually stopped because of the mess they made. Each seed contains tiny amounts of juice, but the entire fruit bleeds thin crimson nectar all over the counters and onto your clothing. 

Obviously, the only proper way to do this is to get naked.

At my family's lake cabin one summer years ago, already clad in a bikini, I took the liberty of splitting open a ripe pomegranate and taking it to the bathroom. I sat in the tub with the two halves and ate the entire thing, one handful of seeds at a time. Sticky scarlet juice ran down my arms and face in long droplets, and when I was done, I set the husks of the fruit aside and took a bath.