Apples

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The cool bead of sweat rolling down the rough ruby red skin
Glistening in the sunlight like the sunbathers I have noticed at the beach
Dangling from the tree by the tiniest of stems.
With nothing to catch it,
Like a home run hit at Comerica Park,
Except for the small smooth hands of young children
Reaching with all their might trying to taste the freshness
As each apple gets ripped off the tree and fall into the basket memories are created.
As each small wooden wicker basket seems to run out of room
The children wander aimlessly back into the house
Where they wait to see what their loot will bring.
Waiting patiently in the kitchen with their eyes wandering
Sitting at the table that they can barely see over,
With their legs dangling never reaching the floor
Their grandma brings in a plate of freshly cut red apples
That have bled their juice all over the plate.
Sitting next to the plate is a small white saucer filled with golden brown caramel.
With each bite there is a crisp crunch and the juice fills your mouth.
The kids ask “where did all the apples go?” impatiently
But what they soon grasp is the intoxicating smell of the baking sweet apple pie in the oven.
The aroma fills the house
Driving the children crazy
All they want is a minute to taste the warm pie.
The baking pie that has antagonized the children so much is finally delivered to them out of the oven
When the grandma says “not now kids its has to cool.” In her calm caring voice
Their little impatient faces look up at their Grandma
There is nothing she can do please them
All they want is the warm apple pie.
So what does Grandma do?
She hands them their little brown wooden wicker baskets,
Where memories are created.





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