Apple Pie

In my youth
my father would make apple pies
from scratch.
I used to watch him
from the backdoor windows,
standing out beneath the apple tree
picking his favorites.

It was an art,
the way he held each one in his hand,
rubbing their soft skin
against his fingers,
rough from years of labor.
He inspected them with such precision,
turning them
over and over,
searching for flaws,
scratches,
bruises,
dents.
None of these would do.
Any sign of imperfection
and the apple would drop
from his hands
without a second thought,
left to rot
among the fallen leaves.

When he had collected
the perfect bunch,
he would come inside and stand by the sink,
meticulously washing each one
as though it were the rare jewel
he'd been searching for all his life.
I watched the small fruit
in the cup of his large hands
and like my father,
I could see
the miracle of perfection,
the beauty of the search for it,
the importance of settling,
for nothing less.

But unlike my father,
I would think for days
about those not choosen.
Those flawed, imperfect apples
cast aside
because of their inability to live
up to his expectations.
I would agonize over them,
with them,
knowing even then
that if I were an apple,
my father wouldn't pick me.
I would drop from his hands,
his thoughts,
and be left in the yard to rot,
the sweet smell
of fresh apple pie
wafting in the wind around me.