Apples

A look at life and death in symbolism.

Apples 

I have never seen something so beautiful as a Roman apple. Growing round, seemingly perfect, with only slight imperfections. Surrounded by orchids, growing bright and green in the crisp air, the smell encompasses me like no other I have ever smelt. It’s clean and beautiful. 

A couple sits by the rough bark of a bountiful tree, leaves falling around their heads, like a scene out of a movie, or maybe a storybook. They look so happy to be together, holding happiness in the palm of their hand as they whittle it down to the core. One small bite at a time. 

I guess we should see it coming. Nothing so spectacular will last forever. No orchid will forever be fruitful. The air will soon turn colder, the leaves will escape their bonds and be frosted over as the trees try to recover what they have lost. This is, until a spring in their step brings new life and the broken pieces of those lost is replaced by something new. We watch the new grow as we sweat about the days to come and we strive to hold onto what we have, until it slips between our fingers and starts the fall. I guess we can’t expect it to last forever. 

A small girl, golden curls surrounding her celestial face, runs up to pick an apple off a low hanging branch and her face is cast with joy. The apple looks so large in her small, pale, hands. Poor girl doesn’t know what she’s in for. She takes a bite and looks thrilled, until the sour nectar flows over her tongue and she contorts her face with disgust. She stares at the bright red fruit like it has betrayed her, like it has hurt her. She looks as if she has been betrayed. Tossing the apple to the leaf spattered floor and hanging her head in defeat as she walks, sulking, back to her mom. Vanity having captured another victim. A few weeks ago I had learned that that little girl had died. 

Her Mom is standing by a bucket brimming with apples, reaching high into the trees to be rewarded for her work. Though, that reward could not be more important then consoling her child, as she drops the apple and welcomes the sad child into her arms. Forever willing never to let go, to sacrifice all that she has for somebody, who may not understand her until her own prize is no longer perfect, but bruised. Her Mother holds her tightly to her chest, trying to comfort her baby, even though she knows that one day she will be gone. 

A leaf flutters in front of my face and I snatch it out of the air. It has prepared for the fall and it is ready, or so it believes. I have never seen something so beautiful as a Roman apple. Growing round, seemingly perfect, with only slight imperfections.  I have never seen something so bitter. 

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good story. Life teaches us many things.
" Her Mother holds her tightly to her chest, trying to comfort her baby, even though she knows that one day she will be gone."
Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote