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The Bitter Truth |
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Rows of pink orbs stand side by side, a monotony of soldiers with only their rugged mats for company. I’m one of them– well, as one as can be when my pinks seem darker than usual. As if the sun couldn’t help but stare at me. This day, in particular, had the sun forcing its heat a little longer. As my tan deepened with every stroke of heat, I watched people approaching, and their hands plucking at the monotony. One by one. The plushy pinks and their stoic ways left behind the empty aisles– and me. Suddenly, a young girl pranced into the market. Enthusiastically pointing in the direction of my aisle, she ran towards me, calling out to a woman, “Mommy, look over there!” Her mother, chuckling at her daughter's enthusiasm, followed her towards the stalls. I held onto a glimmer of hope, as the girl's curiosity seemed like a beacon of possibility. The young girl wrinkled her nose in confusion and pointed at me on the market stand. “Mommy, what's wrong with this one?” she asked, her expression a mix of curiosity and mild disgust. As her mother followed the line of her daughter's gaze, she heaved a little sigh. “Well, sweetheart, those are a bit unpopular. Not many people like them because they’re too bitter.” The girl made a face, scrunching her brows. “Like medicine?” Her mother nodded. “Exactly. No one in our family really likes those. We won't get that one today. Let's find something else you’ll enjoy.” They continued their journey through the market, leaving me, and a bitter taste, behind. I’ve asked myself why I’m still here. That’s an easy one to answer: I’m an acquired taste. And yet, each tickle of fingers against my weathered skin, and the noticeable brush of emptiness as they move on, leaves me waiting. So the real question becomes, Who exactly will do the acquiring?
In the field, life was simple. Our family basked in the warmth. The rustling leaves were our lullabies, and the orchard was our playground. Together, we faced rain showers and bathed in the familiar sunlight. The field was a place where we could be ourselves. We experienced the natural unaltered life, the way it was meant to be. We grieved the loss of our grandparents as they fell off their branches with age. We felt safe as our parents sang their tunes to the gentle breeze. We celebrated the birth of our many friends and cousins, and watched them grow alongside us as strong young adults eager to squeeze the day. Little did we know that one day, strange hands could separate us. My sisters and I had barely grown when a truck rumbled into our haven, driven by an old man with “Saul” stitched on his shirt. He sauntered over with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke curling around him like a cloak. His clothes were worn and ripped. The sweet aroma of citrus that once filled the orchard was overshadowed by the scent of tobacco. With every step, his exhale of nicotine and our field's fragrance clashed in the air. His hands grasped at and plucked us from our branches. As Saul’s hands cupped us, the warmth they offered felt at odds with the coarse touch of his flannel. The simplicity of field life was handed to the unknown as I lolled into a crate destined for the market. “Load ‘em!” Saul called out to the farmer, his voice ringing with authority. The truck’s engine roared, carrying us away from the familiar rustle of leaves. In the distance, the scent of citrus lingered, but Saul’s smoke hung heavy. From afar, the orchard seemed emptier as the truck rolled us away. The warmth of Saul's hands couldn't replace the comfort of our connected roots, but the journey had begun, and the sun-kissed days were over. As I rolled into the market surrounded by a different family, they seemed to cast skeptical glances my way. Those with orange glints and sunny temperaments exchanged curious looks. A dynasty of yellows with spiked crowns standing tall and firm, seemed to dismiss me with a prick of their skin. I felt the weight of their collective gazes, an unspoken “no” echoing in the market's lively atmosphere. In the vibrant market, I was unaware of the biases that governed the hierarchy. From frigid ice baths to the intermittent beeps and blurs at the front, I knew I had come a long way from the pure, pink pastures of the past. The tribe of blues focused their wise, soulful gazes. Their warnings echoed like thunder. “Watch your back, newcomer,” they warned. “You can never plant your seeds among the deep roots of this market.” “Is there no room for our taste and essence?” I questioned. Then, with a plum ruby shine, three bloody spheres circled the tribe. “Don’t talk to that thing,” they snapped. “Are you willing to bitter our reputation?” I wanted to speak up and reassure the ruby reds that pinks will only strengthen their reputation. But I said nothing as I froze in fear and disbelief. I shed a silent tear, remembering the simpler days in the field. As I faced the harsh reality of a market deeply rooted in divisions, I realized that I didn’t belong anywhere– it was inevitable for the establishment to want to remove me. The vendors meticulously crafted an artful display, staging the others with precision and care. Hoping for someone to pick me, I wanted them to fix me too. I desperately wanted to escape the market. I knew that I couldn't get back my simple life in the field, but I yearned for a new home where I am loved again. The tribes of blue guarded the front, propping up the yellow dynasty’s regal crown. I envisioned myself taking center stage, nestled among the others, awaiting a discerning customer's choice. But as the hours ticked on, I had fallen behind the stand hidden under the heap of blues. I was nowhere to be seen. Time passed, and I found myself tumbling onto the market floor. As my once vibrant skin softened, a moldy presence slithered about me. The unique citrus aroma that had once surrounded the fields transformed into a tang, musking my decline. The other vendor’s words cut through the air as they whispered, “It’ll be gone soon anyway, it hardly sells.” The second time a person grasped at me was to discard me. In the trash, for the first time in the market, I saw my own kind. We shared the same fate, each bearing the weight of being plucked, overlooked, and discarded. I always dreamt of reuniting with my real family, and when we were finally reunited, we were all fading away together– fading to the point that we were all hardly recognizable through our decay. It’s a cycle, you see? Just one grapefruit after another.