My morning is spent at the table, Brasso in hand. I rub away layers of tarnish and regain a long forgotten shine.
Late afternoon I chop an onion. As I slice and dice, I wonder at the consistent perfection of the flesh, even as the aroma makes my eyes water.
After tea, my daughter laughs up at me as I peel an apple. I concentrate as I try to remove the skin in one piece. As always, I fail.
And what of us? Now our children sleep, I think of you. The meetings get later, the mornings still early.
I bite my own apple.
I eat as if famished.
I reach the core.
Breaking a pip between my teeth, a bitter taste fills my mouth.
Perhaps we have become like those pips. What would happen if we found some soil and buried them in the ground? Would they flourish, or would they wither away; becoming nothing but a memory?