The frugal waste-not nature of my mother and my father that too sadly slipped by one of my sisters makes me pause mid-field and without my mind’s control my feet take me to the apple tree, the one that Bandit–the horse that Jim and I call Frito (Bandito) and fed carrots to and cabbage–used to reach up for and nibble on, that looks much like a toddler’s drawing with a puffy green cloud scattered here and yon with ripe-red balls, all stuck together on a stick.
But Frito’s gone now many years and uneaten apples get the opportunity to turn yellow, red and dangle in my vision, transforming, steaming, covered cinnamony and sugar into pie.
Can’t help it. I trudge back to the house with t-shirt bottomed belly pregnant with the fruit.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology