This story has a beginning…here.

For my part, the wait was worse than anything. But to go with the flow I usually tended to chime in on the positive side. Nobody likes a sour grape, right?

On the inside, though, I could feel my soft center turn to bile. How could life be so small? Was it really just a matter of the branches clearing? For what was I still here? In the silence that always followed our small jam sessions the empty spaces around us always looked a little stark. This was the time when the absence of others was most clear. All around were reminders of those who who’d been plucked away, so young they barely had time to really fill out.

Yet once those juices were flowing it became difficult to ignore the bowl world surrounding us had its own beauty. Like in the morning, when the sun shone in from the window, an arc of light would glance in, illuminating the surface of some full bodied apple and warm us all with the glow. Or, even in the middle of sad sigh that left me sagging, my round behind would lean into the curve of a ripe banana so soft and enveloping it was like what I imagined being picked is like.

And there was always that. The hope that one day, I would be picked. Hopefully, one day soon.

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