Strange Fruit

There is a story here.  It's a story about death, and birth, and the swelling of fruit and bellies, and the decay of flesh, of everything that lives and dies and settles back into the earth for another round.  It's the story of the day last week when my last remaining grandparent --my father's mother-- died, and both my parents became orphans.  It's the story of three sisters at a funeral with babies growing in their bellies, one of whom is still a whisper yet to be spoken aloud.  It's the story of an apple tree bearing fruit right outside a wake where the rosary is recited, a two year old boy who buries himself in leaves while the woman inside waits for her own burial, flesh painted like a poor rendition of a song that will never measure up to the original.  It's a story about family, about the things that divide us and bring us together.  A story about hope and regret, and the passage of time and distance, minutes that become hours, and days that become years, steps that become miles and seemingly small spaces that become insurmountable.  There is a story here.  I'm just not sure how it goes yet.  Perhaps if I had tasted the apple instead of taking a photograph ... perhaps I would know the words by now.  Or maybe I'd be banished.  Maybe I'm still in Eden.  Perhaps I'll never know the words.  Perhaps that's for the best.