By Ann Burack-Weiss
Banana. Avocado. The very names exude health. Their shapes and colors so pleasing to the eye.
I felt virtuous as I placed them in the supermarket cart, on the price scanner at check out, pulled them four blocks home in my shopping cart, placed them in a hand-made ceramic bowl and set them on the center of the kitchen counter.
They were ripe and ready. I was not. Firm and vibrant when they entered this room, they lived up to their promise. I did not. They weigh heavily on the mind.
I could make an avocado smoothie. Or a banana bread. Or a lot of other things - each involving additional ingredients that appeal to my appetite no more than these bruised, shriveled specimens sitting before me.
Ah, if I could spirit them across the world - or even down the block – to feed the hungry. But who among the familiar homeless on nearby streets would not be insulted by my donation of a piece of sub-prime fruit. I know that I would.
Removing the evidence of my crime is a surreptitious business – even though no one is watching but the ghosts of my conscience.
Under the eyes of the “starving Armenians” I was urged to remember in my childhood, the billions of hungry people who occupy this planet with me, I place them hastily in the garbage bin, twist the top, and doom them to their fate.
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