I let Hawthorne choose the apples.
He was barely two–
couldn’t reach the stands.
I held him up.
Maybe it was color,
green, red, yellow,
all bright,
well saturated and vibrant.
Maybe it was how soft or firm
the flesh beneath his little, questing fingers.
Cool of the skin,
slight rough of fruit without wax.
All he chose were a little soft,
like they were full of juice.
Maybe it was size.
He couldn’t grasp bigger ones,
needed a hand to steady fist-sized Pink Ladies.
But small ones,
nestled into his palm,
didn’t slip.
They ended up in the basket,
little knots of apples.