I was thirteen, and it was June. It was a day that help an unpredictable promise, and this promise was carried in the scent of Blueberry waffles, as the odor drifted up and into my bedroom. I'm running, and I fling my body down each flight of stairs. I'm flying. I'm impatient; I need those waffles like a mortal needs air. Eyes still crusty from my abrupt awakening, I find my Mother at the stove. She's making more, more of my sweet, mouth-watering addiction, mountains and mountains of beautiful crispy waffles. My fingers inches from the peaks of those buttery hills, and she stops me. Mother has a request. Before I am to have breakfast, I must first fetch some apples from the orchard for her pie.

Without enthusiasm I walk out the back door to the orchard. The wet grass squelches under my bare toes, I shiver. But not an unpleasant shiver, more like one of anticipation, but for what? It was not for the blueberry waffles that awaited my arrival at home. It was for something more, something that had been waiting for me. I'm at the orchard. To get the apples I must climb, so I do. The tree molds itself to my hands and feet, and before I know it I'm at the top. That's when I see it, the unpredictable promise has presented itself. I steal it from it's branch, the blood red skin firm against my fingers. I bite, blueberry waffles completely forgotten. An explosion of heavenly juices erupt in my mouth! But then I slip, and I'm Falling. Hand still gripping the bitten apple, its white insides are decaying at an unnaturally quick speed. I'm still Falling, and I'm afraid I'll never stop.