September 25, 2014

“Just before John, Jim, and Frank died, they sent me a bushel of fresh apples they picked themselves from an orchard about an hour outside of town. They left no note but I knew the apples came from them. The apples were polished too carefully, buffed against shirtfronts to the point that the peels reflected my face cleanly. The apples were too red, too perfect. There were no blemishes, no parts that went flat instead of round, no leaf out of place, no stem snapped too close to the fruit itself. Every apple seemed pristine. The only thing John, Jim, and Frank couldn’t help was that the apples smelled like them.”

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