You don't have to begin by telling the reader that the apples are gone. With all the stickiness of the p's in papaya, she'll know that you've moved on, that clementines and pears now hang precariously near the edge of your wooden bowl, that you were wrong--at least that day--about how the spring would come or when the baby might arrive. Mention your mother: talk about her hands, or her laugh, or the way the tent preacher healed her lazy eye when she was a little girl; you might even want to tell about the dream she had for years, the one about burying the man in the basement, about worrying she'd be "found out." Use nouns: evening primrose oil, pad thai, blisters from walking so long. Try to remember what it is that you are trying to say. If, because you are too distracted by, perhaps a toothache, or a baby that was due three days ago, to even remember what it is you were trying to say, distract your reader instead: confess something. Friday, March 30: Besides the obvious, I can think of nothing but jellybeans.