In the Mississippi of my childhood, the summer-thick heat rises, blurring the blacktop and bringing with it the scent of rotting persimmons that I gather into a cracked five-gallon bucket in our front yard. The cars speeding by bring the only breeze. My hair is a hot scarf and I want to go inside and ask for a glass of water. Instead I pinch a piece of fruit between my thumb and forefinger, a purple and orange marble, a tiny membranous egg, and watch the flesh split through its skin. The thing about persimmons is they’re fickle little things—one day toothache-sweet, the next they’re bitter as a mother forty years into a love-starved marriage. I place one on my tongue as my father comes up behind me, tense at the sun-warmed hands that grip my shoulders, and at thirteen I think I understand the thrill of gambling as he gathers my hair back, gently twisting it into a small black band off my neck. What’s the verdict? he asks, and I see a slot machine behind my eyes, watch the fruit spin spin slow stop. Jackpot. Sweet, today, I tell him. He smiles at me. Takes my hand.