the will of the fallen apple

The heat confined me to my mind, barred by the mirages I created to entertain my survival. I had always detested summer. My thighs peeled off the periwinkle subway seats and I swear I left residue of my being just as a half assed sticker peel would. Beads of sweat would swarm from my temples down to my neck- and I was expected to find a partner in this state? I’m certain the small talk would be invigorating. I can see it now!

“Babygirl, what's good?”

“Oh hello! Nothing much, negotiating my swamp ass and tomato red skin that was once white as snow. But it’s summer! No more seasonal depression! A joy!”

I suppose I was never one for small talk. But then again, that wasn’t exactly true. I could carry a conversation; in all honesty I could sway one easily with dribbles of words from my tongue. Nonetheless I see no value in that trait for finding a mate. What an easy task, to make anyone fall in love. I didn’t want just anyone, I liked challenges. I had always climbed the highest trees, ate the most food, and ran the longest as a child. Love was just another aspect I refused to roll over in. 

Oh, how my mother would wail at these thoughts. My apple certainly fell far from her tree. Her beach blonde sandy haired majesty, blue eyes like the ocean, with skin the sun even prayed to. I was the walking contradiction of my mother. The snow blessed my skin and was a blank canvas for my dirt hair and mud eyes. My mother came from the edges of land, where children laughed and weren’t afraid to fall. For there was always a blanket of sand beneath them and the tides of the oceans to push them towards their goals. I was born deep in the forests, where no noise was made when a tree fell. The mystery of happenings scared travelers but a haven to local critters and creatures. For many years, I walked along the beach with sandy feet following in her footsteps. What nurtured her, was poisonous to me. The sun slapped my skin leaving stinging bold burns. Kids cried as they bit into sandy sandwiches and were later swept out to sea with the pull of the waves. It was not my destiny to walk with sand between my toes. I much preferred dirt under my nails and the shade of the canopying trees. 

I was no stranger to the choice being a variant from my mother. It took a while to swallow. I was not the ideal image of paradise. What I did not anticipate was the sour taste it invoked in the mouths of others. Growing up in a farming town, creepy crawlies that tickled my fancy weren’t hard to come by. By the age of five I became infatuated with worms. They had a dislike for the sun like I, coming out from their underground fortresses only when it rained. Even when wounded, worms would regenerate and continue on. How admirable, from such a small and simple creature. They possessed an inherent genetic will. I would pick them up and pet them like a household pet to show my admiration of their efforts. One morning before the school bus came, a drizzle blessed the skies and the worms had come out to play. Quietly at the corner of my property I pet the worms waiting for my chariot to arrive. Not until a neighboring girl my age screamed in utter disgust. 

“Yuck! How gross. You know girls don’t play with worms. You must not be a girl then.”

My face became hot with summoned power from the hidden sun. I picked up one of the worms I had been admiring and launched it directly into the girl's face. I made two enemies that day: my neighbors and the worms. And what a shame, I lost my companion in loving the rain.