I salt my mashed potatoes like grandpa, heavy handed and fearless.

That’s what my mother once told me.

She said that I’ve got her brothers laugh, too, wicked and sincere.

On some days it feels like my apple dropped straight down from its birthplace in the branches.

Landing neatly amongst its peers.

On others it feels like it rolled downhill and got kicked across the street.

What do you think would happen if the apple were to explode?

Would I become one thousand tiny pieces?

All different pieces, a small bit of everyone I’ve ever known?

Or would each piece be vaguely the same?

An even spread of all the bullshit concisely packaged into a single human experience?

Applesauce smashing into the pavement under a passing truck…

Maybe it’s for the better that we can never truly know.