Wednesday, October 9, 2013
I like the warty apples from Farmer Frank's ramshackle farm stand, hand-picked off a modest-sized tree. I can picture him, hunch-backed, craning his neck to twist their stems off the branches and let them fall in a wooden basket.
I like the warty apples like I like the Pinocchio-Cyclops tomato and the curvy-legged carrot. I like the warty apples like I like the chickpeas that resemble little bums, the bean sprouts that look like green baby heads, and the strawberry with the mohawk stem. I like the warty apples because it makes me giggle, like how I giggle at my English teacher with his checkered bow-tie, my friend who has paint stains on all his sleeves, and my Persian cat when she stares at me from the bottom of the stairs.
I like the warty apple because it makes my day just a little bit brighter.