The Perfect Apple

then

She clasps an empty plastic bag in her small hand, surveying the trees with a critical eye.  Delicately, she parts leaves and touches ripe apples, settling on the perfect specimen, red brushed with hints of gold.

“I think this one!” she yells, though I am right next to her.  Only now beginning to understand the distinction between inside and outside voices, she is thrilled to be outside, flexing her vocal chords amongst the neat lines of apple trees.

Snuggled against my chest in his carrier, Dylan looks around at the sound of her voice, content to be carried in the sunshine.

“It looks perfect,” I agree, waiting for her to plop the perfect apple into her bag.

She plucks it from the tree, turning it around in her hands.

Instead of putting it safely inside the bag, she raises it to her mouth, nibbling a bit before tossing it onto the ground.

“No, that’s not it,” she declares, leaving the apple to be pressed into cider.  Handing me the bag, she moves on to her next find.

Choosing six apples may take longer expected. 

Around us, kids fall into two categories: speed pickers and taste testers, tripping on apples brought down by gravity and thrown down by hands finding flaws in the golden red skin.

Two or three more apples fail her quality inspection before she turns to me, beaming.

“Moooommmmmy,” she breathes, “It’s perfect!”

The apple she hands me is slightly small and bruised on one side, near the stem.

Her eyes meet mine, expectantly, so proud of the apple she’s finally chosen.

My lips graze Dylan’s forehead; I briefly rest my palm on her head, her hair warmed by the sun.

I gently place her apple in our bag.

“You’re right, Abs.  It’s perfect.”

now

the prompt:

autumn...

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it,
and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive
autumns. ~George Eliot