FRUITS AND WHAT TO DO WITH THEM
Unintentionally, I make my family into a plate of fruit. My mother, a mango, my father, an orange. My brother, the kumquat, is insufferable to peel, and to be honest, we’re thinking of leaving him behind. Before he was a fruit, he was difficult anyway. Maybe he was always a little fruity.
My middle brother, the least interesting of all of us, becomes a small stone, like what you’d skip into the lake. The ripples are good, but he tastes awful, so the dog, who is still a dog, takes him in her mouth and scampers off.
My brother was not always a stone. When he was small, he was maybe something else, trinkets of childhood, like dirt from the backyard or that box he buried one hundred thousand times, a myth of its own proportions.
He is slimy and sullen when he gets back, and too late anyway:
we’ve shed our peels and disappeared.
Emily Maloney takes classes in the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa and lives in Oxford, IA. She makes toast nearly every day.