The Taste Of Apples

I remember the taste of apples, fresh from the tree. Crunchy and sweet as the juice dripped down my chin.

I remember your hand as you broke the fruit from the branch. I remember your fingers, hard and brown, as if they too were part of the tree.

Funny thing about memories - you choose which you keep.

So I’ll forget the faded lipstick, and the unfamiliar perfume which strangled me as we slept.

And I’ll forget the strychnine in your food, and how I glared at every woman at your funeral.

Much better, instead, to remember the taste of apples.