i thought i was

I thought I was an apple

I mean, I live in a box surrounded by other apples

I'm shiny and red; I even wear that stupid little sticker just like all the other apples

I fell off a tree, landed in a truck, and now I'm here

but your hand descends and then it leaves again, pushing me aside, picking all the other apples
slowly emptying the crate, leaving me alone at the bottom

because I'm not the biggest apple

because the wax has worn off and I'm no longer shiny

because I'm bruised and ugly

because of the hint of sourness that grows stronger and stronger with each bite
because of the worms that have begun to burrow through my insides

because I'm two weeks past my expiration date and should've been tossed a long time ago

I thought I was an apple

because I thought you liked apples

but I don't think I want to be an apple anymore

dust to dust

It tumbled several more feet before finally coming to rest. Ouch. That one was almost too big to kick. But with the ground covered in loose chunks of earth of all shapes and sizes just begging to be given a good boot, the temptation was just too great. It's an excellent way to break up the monotony of hiking in the middle of the biggest desert in the country--plus it's the only thing currently keeping my mind off the blistering heat and wishing I was back in the air-conditioned tour bus.

Now it tumbles around somewhere in the bowels of my backpack, jammed in with books, water bottles, and my camera as I continue to walk new paths and see new horizons, soon to be joined by anything else I deem noteworthy enough to throw in my bag, recording and preserving both ancient and recent memory, all contributing to the weight on my shoulders.

I caught up with my most recent victim and stopped to examine it more carefully, giving myself a few seconds to catch my breath. It was still warm, faithfully radiating the heat of its native sun as I turn it over in my hand, carefully tracing its jagged edges with my fingers. Other than a bit of coloration on one side, it looked just as dusty and dead as the landscape around me.

I dumped the contents of my bag onto the floor and everything tumbled out--all the accumulated dirt that slipped through the cracks and tiny bits of trash I forgot to throw away and a few gems I thought I'd lost or forgotten, along with the ones I'd purposely collected. I stood there in the middle of my mess scratching my head. I don't remember acquiring all of these--too busy collecting to worry about carry weight. One of the unforeseen problems of travel. How am I supposed to fit all of this in my suitcase for the flight home? Even worse, how in the world am I supposed to pick which ones to keep and which ones to leave? Which one is more valuable than any other?

True, it's been dead longer than I've been alive. But it's probably (definitely) seen many more years than I have--it could have been resting here for centuries or even a thousand years before I, traveling wanderer extraordinaire, forcibly removed it from its tanning spot (and now I feel bad for kicking it). Who knows how many civilizations worth of dust it accumulated before I nonchalantly brushed it clean Indiana Jones-style, or what historically significant person may have dragged his or her shadow over this very spot. And now, as I squeeze it in my historically insignificant hands, my DNA is mingled in with the dust of history too.

I repositioned it carefully on the shelf for the fifth time. It had to be perfect, my personal display of my most prized possession. Dust and desert were months and miles away but now I traveled the jagged edges as much as I could, both alone and with anyone who would listen.

I looked both ways and slipped it into my pocket like I was stealing priceless artifacts from a museum--because dust and sand make for poor security guards.

I brushed past it again. It's still right where I left it. My fingers don't dance in the ancient dust like they used to, no longer gracing its grooves once worn smooth by desert winds and now by frequent finger traffic. Sometimes it lingers at the edges of my vision or I get to mention it in passing but nothing more. Once a proud resident of a free land now lies a stale ornament on a shelf like a majestic lion rotting in a cage, muffled by the graying dust that settles over things that no longer move or live or remember.

~

I laughed sheepishly, almost embarrassed how quickly I passed over it without noticing.

"Wait, you went where?" he stopped me.

I picked it up off the floor where it had fallen, nearly two years since the very first time I stooped to retrieve it.

"You went to Israel?"

I turned it over in my hand carefully, tracing its familiar grooves and edges once more just like old times, no longer warmed by its native sun but by the grip of memory.
I smiled.