Star Apples

A memory becomes a metaphor for looking at life in a different way.

Deep red apples have fallen on the grass outside in our garden.

I pick them and bring them in, and pile them up

and they look like an old painting.

As memories move swiftly,

the apples transport me  to 

a damp climate, 

to a land surrounded by rivers.

We live in a house with loveliness and softness and song.

Outside is the garden – 

and the apple tree stands guard –

winter, spring, summer,

and in fall it is loaded with deep red apples.

They fall and I pick them,

and shine them,

red treasures –

they turn into an infinite space with stars –

star apples!

I run to my Mommy –

“Mommy, look! 

Stars on the apples!”

She ruffles my hair and asks, 

“Want to taste?”

“Yes – but I love the stars, and they will break!”

and I hide the apple behind my back.

“No,” she says,

“These apples are magic.

There is a perfect big star inside

with a ring of little stars around it.

Want to see?”

We go inside, and

she gets the huge knife from the holder,

and the wooden board.

I am afraid. 

Do I trust her with the most beautiful apple?

She balances the apple,

and cuts it right in the middle

between the woody stem, and the brittle dimple on the other side.

And Yes! There is the star!

There are two stars!

There are tiny stars around them!

I have never forgotten.


Later I realized that she didn’t cut the apple in the standard way.

She showed me that when you are scared to loose something,  you can find something even more beautiful when you approach life in a little bit different way.