I hosted a Celebration of Life tonight. No one came- which was fine, because it was sort of a last minute deal and I didn’t invite anyone. It actually would have been really disturbing if somehow somebody knew what I was doing tonight and showed up solemnly at my doorstep unannounced, head bowed, blender in hand, muttering “we’re here to help” and “nobody should go through this alone.” It’s not like anyone plans to have funerals for forlorn fruits that will soon be on their last legs. If they had any, so to speak.
So I was just shuffling through the kitchen when I made eye contact with an old decrepit peach and I actually felt bad because he was the last one. He’d been a kitchen fixture for so long that he was practically part of the family. Now, as I gazed into his little stem of an eye which was surrounded by crow’s feet of wrinkled pink peach skin, I swear that I could see his soul. Like a whispering breeze I heard, “Why?… Why me? Or… why not me, rather? For I am all that is left of my fruit basket bunkmates. You should have left me at the store to rot.”
That was all it took. In that moment, I vowed to devote my entire night towards saving this juicy little geezer from the jaws of spoilage and was consumed with writing about it afterwards. I put the preserves in my best glass mug, garnished it with a fruit sticker and placed it in a plot surrounded by spicy globe basil for dramatic effect. Rest in peace, peach. R.I.P.