her favourite fruit was apples
by Maya Zeine, Genazzano FCJ College
Years 11 – 12 Written Poetry Finalist
When I was little I left an apple in the bottom of my school bag
It was a green one, my favourite, fresh from the store
A small indent on the side where my nail had dug into the bare flesh (tainted it, made it impure)
In my haste to pull the sticker off
When lunchtime came it never made it out of my bag
Nestled next to my loose pencils and my crumpled homework
Forgotten in favour of the childish need to climb and jump and run (fleeting urges that go with the wind)
I found it months later, still huddled in the corner of my bag like a scared dog
Time had not been kind to my friend, but that is (of course) the nature of it
The glossy jade had turned to a sunken brown
The skin wrinkled and soft like my grandmother’s hands
The stem almost disintegrated, nothing more than dust
Whatever it had once been
It would never be again
Desecrated by the transient mind of a child
I could cradle the rotten apple in my hands as long as I wanted
I could not change what it was (did I want to?)
Could not stop my nose from wrinkling when the smell hit me (did I want to?)
Could not prevent the juices that dripped down my wrists as I held it at an arm’s length (did I want to?)
Could not stop myself from throwing it away (did I want to?)
Out of sight, out of mind
No longer a stowaway in my schoolbag
Weighing me down with every step, rolling from side to side like a pitching ship in a storm
Now condemned to the darkness of a plastic bag and unwanted scraps
Not everything is something else
But not everything is different as well