There was once a fruit bowl,
filled with fruits of all kinds.
Well,
at least which ones grandma liked –
oranges, apples, kiwis, bananas…
At the top,
the shiniest,
plumpest,
most purple,
stood the plum;
seemingly beaming with pride.
My grandma used to change the fruits out,
when they got all mushy and brown,
for newer,
more tasty,
shinier,
fruits to fit her standards.
Grandma died though.
So, my mother does it now.
I want to do it too,
she says I can only when I pay for it.
Except I already have a job.
She changes the fruit,
replaces them with more interesting variations:
leyche, mango, guava,
with the oranges, apples, bananas…
But,
for some odd reason,
she keeps the plums.
Out of respect for grandma,
or some crap about her last wish or something.
It would be alright,
I like plums.
Except,
now,
they’ve been there for so long,
that now they’re prunes.
No one eats prunes,
no one likes them,
They leave a bad taste in our mouth,
and aren’t that tasty,
at.
all.
Yet,
Mom still keeps them on the top.
Like it’s the king,
for grandma,
Who isn’t,
— keep in mind—
around anymore,
to eat,
see,
or,
honor.
Here’s this prune,
that collects dust,
takes up space,
attracts the flies to the other good fruits,
Because it once meant something to grandma.