But for as long as I've been around, they have been rotten. Even the new ones still on the tree. I pick up a fallen apple and turn it over and over in my hands. Its skin is yellow and pale. And bruised. Painfully bruised. Some spots are soft and mushy, and others are compact as if there is a small rock underneath. The surface is broken in a few places, and its begun to dry out.
I look around and see that the other fallen apples are the same way. Tossing the apple aside, I sit under the shade of the tree in the lush, green grass. We don't have grass like this in my yard, or in any yards in our neighborhood for that matter. Leaning against the tree, I look around me. I see purple, yellow, rotting, bruised apples nestled in a carpet of green. I see my legs stretched out in front of me, craddled in the carpet of green next to purple, yellow, rotting, bruised apples.
I pull my legs in to my chest and begin to cry.