It has a mysterious red smudge on its side at its widest point, suggesting a lipstick smear or maybe even a slight hint of ketchup. Directly below (or above) this spot is a tiny brown beauty mark--one of those blemishes you see on fruits, not a bruise, but a tiny imperfection that you don't know the name of. One of its ends is pure yellow, but the opposite end is tainted by a tint of unripe green. The green end is puckered, like a pair of lips that just bit into it. The other end sticks out like a limb.
~
The lemon is like a freak tennis ball. Its almost green, but not quite. It's a teenager going through puberty. It's almost adult (ripe) but not quite. It's still green around the edges. It has funny spots that it doesn't know where they came from and many, many pockmarks on its leathery skin. The lemon is me.
~~
The lemon is almost ripe. Almost. It would be a perfectly edible, delicious, juicy piece of produce were it not for that impudent splotch of green around its puckered rear end. How much longer before the lemon will be able to serve its intended purpose? Why does nature insist upon mocking its fruits with such an unsightly adolescence--not wholly green, but not ripe, either.
~~~
The day I was born: I'm told when it happened; but I don't remember it. Yet, I'm supposed to celebrate it every year. I don't know what there is to celebrate. If anything, it's a cruel reminder of my mortality. Each day is a step closer to death, but birthdays are official. You let the whole world know. I guess more optimistic people might have an opposite opinion--that this is a way for them to achieve immortality, by reminding the world of their existence for as long as they can until they are most likely forgotten.
