I first ate raisins, I imagine. My mom handed out, like prizes, one small, red box of raisins with the Sun Maid on the front to my sister and I. I imagine I was 5. They were sticky and dark purple-brown. Their sticky skins stuck to the slick insides of the shiny Sun-Maid box, and left dimples of sugary residue. The raisins were packed tightly. It was the perfect size for my small hands to hold; its small flaps easy to open with my tiny fingers. It was difficult to dislodge that first raisin out of the box; due to heat and packaging, the raisins had turned into a condensed, enmeshed block. I used my finger to scrape out the first few raisins. It was easy to free them from their prison once the first few had escaped via my finger-scraping. My hands were sticky. I never loved the taste of raisins, it was something I endured. I settled for a snack of raisins. They were too small, for one. I think if they were bigger, like prunes, the taste explosion in my mouth would be more intense, and therefore more satisfying. Instead, I had to maw a bunch of them all at once to get any kind of satisfactory bite. I was looking for a surge of sugary goodness between my teeth and on my tongue. I’m sure I didn’t chew most of the raisins anyway. Eating raisins was an exercise in futility and dissatisfaction, overall. Fuck you, raisins.