Monday, June 27, 2016
The cherries arrive
And finally, feverishly awaited, the cherries arrive.
In an old gallon ice cream bucket, two-thirds full.
I look inside and feel the immediate intimations of the meaning of life.
The pits must be removed.
Ah yes, the industrious, defensive approach to life. Don't dismiss it too readily. The pits must be removed. Once that is done it is all fruit. In this approach we let the fruit take care of itself.
I sit on the back stoop of my house. I have the bucket of cherries, all varieties of deep and pure reds. I have a pot for the bloody meat of the fruit. I have a bowl for the extruded pits. The weather, though summery, is acceptable. I pry out the pits with my thumbs. It is not hard work, but it is long work. The cherries are not large and the more I peer into my bucket the more dazzling the number of the wee cherries grows. One of my hands cramps up from all the same tight motions with different fingers, all contorted to different jobs: holding cherries, holding pits, bracing the cherry, opening the fruit, digging out the pit. I change working hands. Better.
Here is another in the meaning of life held in the bucket of cherries:
How sad I am that there are so very many cherries to pit. And how sad I am that I only have this many cherries. I wish there were more.
I wish there were more and I wish there were less.
Is this how I feel about life?
So why am I writing about it?
Well, alas, I was hoping it would resonate with you.
Good on you that it didn't. Let's get back to those pits then. The fruit will come.