Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Late one night I told you a story about an apple who meets a bird and becomes jealous of the bird's freedom and discontented with his own future. The apple didn't want to become a pie or cider, to be crunched between anyone's teeth, to fall from his branch and rot slowly and seep back into the ground. The well-meaning bird told the apple scary tales, attempting to make it feel better, stories about fighting too-strong winds and running from fast cats and barely escaping hunters with guns, but all the unhappy apple heard were the verbs.

You were asleep before I got to the end of the story, before I told whether the apple made it out or was made into a slightly bitter pie. I didn't know the ending, myself, so it was lucky that you were already breathing softly on to the pillow that was slowly making creases on your cheek before I had to decide. Happy ending or sad ending? Freedom or responsibility? Even now I'm not sure I know.

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