It was twilight and rain was drizzling on the earth, blessing it with small tears of resent. I dared to venture out in the weather, for the cherry tree was laden with fruit and my lips longed to savour the flavour of the beautiful gem of the earth. I reached the tree, and carefully removed the fruit from their resting place in the tree and into the dark containment of the bag I was carrying.
Cherry picking was an art. You had to know exactly how to touch the fruit, if you were too harsh, your jerky movements would cause more of the fruit to waste, I was no master of the earth. For if my father saw how I picked, he would swear and complain that I was wasting all, feeding them to the earth instead of to the family.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed it, because it allowed my mind to wonder. I was never alone when I was picking the fruit, the ones I loved were always with me, despite the miles of different, they too knew the art as well as I did, knowing how much pressure could be applied and too which ones and knowing, when it was ready to be picked.
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