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.
11 comments:
I really love this. The sudden turn at the end just gives you the chills, especially with the sickly sweet image of the smell of the apple pie around the rotten forgotten apple. It's so powerful in its simplicity.
What a heartfelt musing!
What is is about apple pie that makes us feel so warm inside ... ?
I really like this.
When I went to services on Yom Kippur this year, the rabbi said in his sermon that if you refuse to accept imperfection you are doomed to be alone. It's so true. So what if you're not perfect...who is?
so powerful
so moving
please read my prior comment to your post of three ago
why be just like him and focus on what is not perfect?
Maybe it is he who is imperfect in expecting, seeking, and/or wanting perfection! Ever think of that?
I like the disparity between the warmth we associate with apple pie and the coldness of your father's perfectionism.
That was beautifully written. Isn't it kind of great, though, that none of us are perfect? If we all were to stand in the place of those apples, we would all be laying in the grass there with you; as I'm sure even your father would. Uniqueness and beauty can be found in the imperfections.
BTW...I was just wondering... if "Anonymous" is concerned with your relationship with your father and making sure that you read his/her posts, then why doesn't "Anonymous" reveal himself/herself? Just curious.
The images, smells, sadness are so present with this post. What a beautiful poem. I just want to say this. You are leaning to create your own journey without the need for the modeled perfection of your youth. This is one of your greatest strengths.
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