I was chosen from a bowl of twelve and polished against a sleeve before being placed carefully inside a backpack. Until that morning, existence had consisted mostly of pressure from other fruit, supermarket light, and the faint chemical smell of produce mist. Selection introduced purpose. The small hand that carried me to school kept checking the pocket as though afraid I might vanish before reaching my destination.
I was placed on the corner of the teacher’s desk before the other students arrived. Morning light caught my skin. The child adjusted me twice until my reddest side faced the room, then waited for the teacher to notice. When she did, her smile transformed the entire journey into something meaningful. I became evidence of thoughtfulness, affection, and good behavior all at once.
The teacher did not eat me.
At first, this felt like a promotion. I remained on the desk through lessons, parent meetings, spelling tests, and rainy afternoons. Visitors noticed me. The teacher sometimes mentioned who had brought me, and the child brightened every time. I began measuring my worth through those moments.
By the second week, my skin had dulled. A soft patch developed near the stem. The teacher moved me away from her papers, then farther toward the edge of the desk. Eventually I reached the windowsill. The child stopped checking on me, having discovered stickers, handmade cards, and other offerings that renewed the teacher’s smile more reliably.
Rot brings a peculiar education. I learned that being cherished and being preserved are unrelated conditions. I learned that objects praised for symbolism are still subject to biology. Flies noticed me before people did. The soft place widened, and sweetness escaped through a split in my skin.
One afternoon the teacher finally picked me up. For a moment, old pride returned. Then she carried me toward the wastebasket, hesitated, and instead placed me in a small compost bin beside the classroom garden.
The ending I had imagined for myself had always involved consumption, admiration, or eventual disposal. Compost had never occurred to me.
Months later, some portion of what I was feeds the roots of a young tree planted beside the playground. Children run past it without knowing me. The original child has moved to another classroom. The teacher rarely comes outside. Strangely, this bothers me less than I expected. I spent so long believing my purpose depended on remaining recognizable that I mistook recognition for survival.
Whatever I am now has no polished side to present, yet every spring the tree produces blossoms, and I have begun to suspect being chosen was only the shortest chapter of my life.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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