Making the Soft Places Hard

Words are hard to use effectively, especially when I am using words that you don't see, actually see in an image. For example, if I say apple, and you have no idea of what an apple is, then you are left with an apple question mark in the middle of your forehead. I may see the question mark; if I'm lucky, I may be able to hold an apple up for you to see. "Apple," I say. "Apple," you say, seeing its color. Green, red, pink-red, lime-green, deep red. Color aside, you might touch the apple. "Smooth," you might say. "Hmm," I might say and fall asleep. Our game is over. I have lost interest in apples, their colors, their textures.

I am tired of looking at smooth, green apples. A red apple, a certain red color apple might interest me, but I am tired or round apples, red and green apples. I am tired of the connotation of apples: farms, trees, orchards, people picking apples, green acres, farm air, cumulus clouds, ladders, fall, bushel baskets, apple cider, plastic jugs. Nippy air is nice, especially the n's, apple pickin' time. And I know that apple pies can fill my hunger only so much. And there is only so wide an apple smile can take, a certain time, place, an afternoon snack after school. For only a bit of time does an apple soothe; the picture of an apple, the words that describe it may be a plaything, a learning thing for a kindergarten classroom. However, it is a hollow bite in the world of non-apples. The curve of the apple does not soften hard corners; it resists giving comfort as a pillow. A Granny Smith apple is an apple after all and cannot work to fill another roll. An apple is not the stuff of dreams; it might be the stuff of snacks, especially when my stomach is growling.

A meditation on apples is not filling, nor fulsome, nor forthright, nor toothsome, nor enough to soften the hard places. Apple meditation does not whisper a word about millions who are uninsured, working in lousy jobs with low pay and no benefits, whose lovers have left, and pets have wandered off. Sometimes, I wonder at the comfort of words. Nope, apples don't comfort me anymore; not the reality of their round selves; the idea of their charming habitat. My dreams used to be more real than apples. That was when I was young.