Without Apples

Six apples in front of my eyes

Waiting for their greater purpose

Each painted a deep, glossy red, reminding me of the perfume that sits on my desk

These apples must not go to waste, I say

I cannot, I will not let them turn into mush

Pie it is.

Five knives to choose from

I go with the shortest

Running the blade carefully across the apple, thin spirals of white and red ribbons make their way to the floor

The apple disposes of its disguise, much like a caterpillar leaving the comfort of its silky cocoon 

Four apples left

I have gained a rhythm for this loathful task

The completion of one apple after the next

I feel as though I am winning, that is in my own game of one on one

Three birds fly, fully free and unaware of apple peeling

I have spotted their posse as I gaze outside my window, eager at the chance to distract my attention from the apples

The apple skins have started to tower on top of one another

Their colors just as alluring as a typical evening in the fall

I watch the birds once more

I wonder, what it must be like to fly

Two apples left

My hands have grown tired

Tired from the peeling

Tired from the repeated motion of the blade across the fruit's surface

I can only think of the pie that is soon to be 

Without apples there would be no apple pie

No flaky golden brown crust

No caramelized sugar creeping up along the sides of the pan

No sweet aroma, adrift in the air

After all, only a baker knows the true glory of this peeling, for in return, you have created

One apple pie.