By Gabriel Meek
My mother’s tree stands enclosed by a stolen
wrought-iron graveyard fence
in the shadow of the mountain named
after the most famous circus elephant,
its trunk wrapping around to the north.
This tree drops apples—
Macs, their pink skins softer
than any store-bought apple.
Each October, more boxes than we
can use are sent over the passes
to my mother’s kitchen.
She breaks out all the tools,
the corer, the dehydrator,
the jars, the funnel,
the ten-gallon pot,
but no peeler.
Never a peeler.
To make it right, the peels
must stay on. When she heats
the fruit and mashes it with
a giant wooden pestle, the applesauce
seeps through the sieve
and stays pink.
Gabriel Meek is a junior English major at Whitworth University in Spokane, Washington. He loves reading and running more than eating, so one might call him a little crazy.
